


Strike Us Like Matches (Cause Everyone Deserves The Flames)

by alexabarton



Series: Deduce My Ruined Heart [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Sex, Come Marking, Coming Untouched, Drug Use, Jealous John, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Kink, Non-Graphic Violence, Rimming, Teenlock, Unilock, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back together again, Sherlock continues to battle his demons, calling on old friends for help.<br/>But the past refuses to stay buried - and when Sherlock misbehaves John exacts his sweet revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strike Us Like Matches (Cause Everyone Deserves The Flames)

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the delay, first there was a month of Christmas stories then, you know, real- life stuff - but damn it feels good to get my smut-on again!!

 

 

 

The dark blue van wove expertly through the night-time traffic, moving as fast as it could go within the confines of the law. Greg Lestrade huffed and cursed at every delay, the roads still humming with activity, even this late, his sense of urgency transmitting through to the other occupants in anxious waves.

Sherlock’s pale eyes glittered in the dark interior as he and John bumped shoulders with every jerk and sway. Only John could see, tucked away in the back like this, away from prying eyes, the violent shivers that overtook him every now and then as his body betrayed him, posture unnaturally tense as he struggled within himself in a defiant battle for self-control.

Sherlock might believe that he couldn’t be dependant after so short a time, but John already knew that matters like this were never so clear-cut. He could tell that Sherlock was clearly in need of a hit, of what exactly, John didn’t know yet. A sense of fear and regret pervaded his mind at the thought of the immeasurable damage wrought by only a week apart. What if he couldn’t help him? Or what if Sherlock couldn’t stop? Because a simple promise just might not be enough.

They hadn’t yet had a chance to speak beyond a few snatched words before they jumped in the back of the van, and this was hardly the place to talk, squashed in beside Greg and the rest of the band. They would just have to wait until they were alone because there was still so much that needed to be said, to work out.

John reached out and grasped Sherlock’s cold, pale hand where it lay, clutching at the edges of the battered old seat. He squeezed his fingers tightly and smiled. Sherlock squeezed back, eyes slightly glazed, lost for a moment in his own thoughts, but John didn’t mind that, he was just content to be here, where he thought he would never be again, beside Sherlock, pressed close, and nothing, not even this new insidious threat, would ever tear him away.

Sherlock sighed and released his hand, then replaced it on the top of John’s leg, rubbing slow teasing circles with his thumb along his thigh, while long fingers snaked down between his parted legs Ah, so he had been paying attention after all.

John held his breath as Sherlock’s talented digits squeezed at his full, aching balls and rubbed his cock through his jeans. John just couldn’t decide which of them Sherlock was really trying to distract. He should put a stop to this now, before he was past the point of no return, or the end result could very well be him coming in his pants in the back of the van. Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder and nuzzled into the side of his neck, the tip of a tongue slipped out to paint a wet trail across his skin. Shit. The urge to pull his head up just then and kiss him was overwhelming. John bit his lip and considered pushing away Sherlock’s hand. This was mad, someone was bound to notice. Oh god, someone already had.

Greg’s eyes caught his in the rear view mirror, quite clearly amused

“For god’s sake, give John a break Sherlock, you’ve got the whole bloody night ahead of you to wear him out”

Greg winked at him, before setting his eyes back on the road ahead. Dimmock blushed furiously on John’s behalf and Anderson, turning his nose up, snorted, in obvious disgust. Sherlock bristled angrily beside him and John could feel the vicious tirade just waiting to fall from his lips. He had a good idea of how much Sherlock hated Anderson, and it was obviously mutual too, this constant stream of snark between them served as testimony to that fact.

He heaved a sigh of relief as Greg beat Sherlock to it.

“Nothing wrong with a good healthy sex drive….teenage hormones Anderson…remember those?” Greg chortled at the wide-eyed look of horror on Anderson’s ratty face as he took the next corner a bit too fast, breaking hard as they pulled into the crawling line of traffic ahead. “Come on you fucking useless twat” Greg shouted at a stationary car that blocked the left hand turn.

He blasted the horn impatiently.

“If I was in bloody uniform, I’d be taking that dickhead in”.

Sherlock’s head snapped fully back to reality then as he gazed at the road ahead. “Why the fuck are you driving back to my house Greg?”

John heaved a sigh of relief as Sherlock took his hand out of his crotch and sat up, alert in his seat.

“You didn’t really think I would let you come along? I do actually want to keep my job you know. Anyway, they’re not going to let you poke around an official police crime scene Sherlock, for fuck’s sake, I doubt if I’ll even get very near”.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, clearly unimpressed “But yet an idiot like Anderson gets unlimited access along with those performing monkey’s they laughably call a forensics team?” Sherlock pouted and John had to stifle a smile, he sounded like a petulant child.

“At least the evidence I produce will be admissible in a court of law” Anderson retorted “unlike your ridiculous ramblings…who do you think you are Sherlock, bloody Nancy Drew for fuck’s sake?”

“Just shut it Anderson” Greg cut in, “You’ll just wind him up even more”.

“I can speak for myself…as for this imbecile…”

“Yeah, you’ve already made your opinion very clear mate”, Greg interjected, successfully nipping Sherlock’s stream of abuse in the bud, “Now bugger off, both of you, and go do what normal teenage boys do…for a change” Greg drew up by the kerb and gestured for them to leave, he looked at his watch with an impatient growl. John could sense the unspoken ‘what the hell does he mean by that?’ that radiated from Sherlock’s incredulous face, but he knew Greg probably meant something along the lines of X-Box, pizza and beer, three of the least likely things Sherlock would ever deign to engage in. But hey, he had mates more than willing to do that sort of thing and he much preferred Sherlock’s version of normal anyway.

“Just do as he says Sherlock” John tugged on his arm. Greg was in a hurry and it wouldn’t help his case if Sherlock hung around just to cause a scene. Best just get him out of the way.

Greg beamed approvingly “Good to have you back John, cause the little shit never listens to me…and you…” he rounded on Sherlock once more “ this time use your bloody key, or Mycroft’s installing bullet proof glass in your little escape hatch…okay?”.

Sherlock pointedly ignored him and clambered out of the van, John shrugged in mute apology and turned to follow suit. “John” He turned to look into solemn brown eyes as Greg considered his next words carefully and delivered them with a furrowed brow.

“Just stick together this time, whatever you decide to do, don’t let him go off on his own again, he’s a fucking magnet for trouble, that kid…”

“Huh, yeah, and I wonder why he’s never ended up behind bars yet?” Anderson muttered under his breath.

The implication was clear, and John wondered just how many times Mycroft or Greg had stepped in or turned a blind eye to stop Sherlock being locked in a police cell. He wondered if Sherlock even knew himself.

John stumbled out of the back of the van onto the silent avenue, slamming the doors before Greg pumped his foot down on the accelerater and sped off. The large white houses in Sherlock’s street glowed eerily in the dark night, lit only by the feeble glow of the yellow street- lights.

Sherlock must have been half frozen by now in his thin clothes, John thought, crowding in close to share a little body heat while he fumbled in the lock with his key, almost touching, but not quite.

He felt a momentary pang of guilt for ditching his friends again, he hoped that Mike at least would understand. He knew how bad John had felt all week after he came back from the school on Monday with yet another fresh bruise blossoming on his forehead. Mike’s immediate thought had been Sherlock had punched him an assumption he had been quick to correct, explaining rather sheepishly that he had in actual fact head-butted some random in defence of Sherlock instead, but yeah, they were still finished despite that. On second thoughts, he might think John was a stupid bloody prick for even considering going back there, especially now, with the added ‘complications’ to deal with on top of all that. Harry had been less than sympathetic when she had called him mid-week for a sisterly chat, said Sherlock sounded like nothing more than a liar and a cheat and that he had had a very lucky escape. A bit hypocritical he thought, considering how many times she had lied to John and his mum about exactly how much she had drank.

Fuck it, fuck all of them, he just couldn’t help himself. John just wanted the bastard too damn much, even as he had punched the stupid git in the face. A part of him knew that he had only been able to put Sherlock on his back because he had allowed John to do just that. In a fair fight John had his suspicions that his slight build notwithstanding, Sherlock would be the one who would come out on top. As if the bastard could possibly be any sexier, it really shouldn’t be allowed.

“You’re thinking so loud John, it’s practically deafening”, Sherlock smirked as he turned to face him, poised on the threshold, door key still in hand.

“Oh yeah, and what am I thinking about” he challenged, a little embarrassed at being caught out.

“Me”

Well, he could hardly deny that now could he? Where Sherlock was concerned he was definitely developing a one-track mind. Sherlock pushed open the heavy front door and they bundled into the immaculate, cavernous hallway, bathed in warmth and soft light, he pushed, and the door clicked shut again, much quieter than its heavy construction should have allowed. John knew what would come next, but the intensity still caught his breath as Sherlock turned to face him with a look of sheer undisguised want.

“I can’t believe you’re really here, I thought after what I told you, you might never want to see me again” Sherlock reached out a hand and brushed gently across his face, his icy fingers burned like a brand on John’s skin.

“You’re an idiot then Sherlock” he said, voice sounding much more composed than he felt, “Did you really think I was just going to punch you, fuck you up against a wall and then just walk away again?”.

(The time to walk away would have been after the punching bit, but his dick had apparently had a completely different set of plans tonight).

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but John still couldn’t disguise the audible gasp as Sherlock pushed him hard, and his back was slammed roughly against the locked front door. His head connected with a solid thunk. Sherlock gripped his waist, hard, as if convinced that holding him so tight was the only way to stop John slipping from his grasp and mouthed hot, desperate kisses all along his jaw and neck. John fisted a handful of curls and tugged gently until his head tilted back and kissed him hard and deep, not caring about the click of teeth and almost painful little nips.

“Are you going to finish what you started back there?” he pulled away slightly, to look into pupils, blown wide and to grab a good handful of Sherlock’s luscious arse, revelling in the fact that he just could.

“Ah, yes, I got you all hard for me in the back of the van” Sherlock answered with a delicious smirk.

“Is Mycroft home?”

“What…..do you want him to watch?”

“Fuck off Sherlock, I just wondered if you were planning to do me right here, like we can’t even make it upstairs”.

Sherlock paused to consider, as if this was a real possibility and John found he was actually holding his breath. He was definitely mad enough to try it even with the risk of others in the house.

“As tempting as that sounds…perhaps you’re right, and anyway, I thought we had already established John, that you are the one in charge tonight”.

What…when the fuck had they decided any such thing? John felt a shiver of excitement, he supposed he could be up for that. It was about time someone put Sherlock in his place, the arrogant little shit. But then he remembered his bruised and battered ribs and gave an involuntary wince, and reluctantly thought they might have to be a bit more creative about that.

“Hey” John stopped as a sudden thought occurred. “You gave up a bit easily on the whole arson, murder crime scene thing tonight didn’t you…or is there something you haven’t bothered to tell me about yet?”

“Well it was hardly appropriate in front of Greg…he would’ve blabbed straight to Mycroft if he caught wind of any such plans… and I would say we’ve been a little preoccupied since…but I always planned on having you first if that’s what you were going to ask.”

“So you’re going anyway, despite what Greg said?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I? or, we, I should say, because you’ll be coming too of course…just to make sure I don’t go astray. But I need to make a few discreet enquiries first anyhow, no use sneaking over there unprepared”.

“What sort of enquiries are you talking about?, you can hardly just ring up NSY and ask”.

“Those idiots couldn’t tell me anything of use…I plan on using some of my alternative connections instead”.

“Oh shit…this doesn’t mean something illegal does it? I’ll kill you myself if this night ends with both of us under arrest”.

Seriously, that would be a disaster, he thought, a black mark on his University record, and it could very well affect his chosen career. But would he go anyway? Fuck it, the answer would always be yes…because this was Sherlock for god’s sake, and John, the stupid idiot that he was, would follow him anywhere.

“Don’t be so dramatic John, of course we won’t…well…probably not anyway” he said as he finally dragged John up the stairs.

Fuck. That wasn’t reassuring in the least.

Sherlock’s bedroom was just as much of an apocalyptic disaster zone as the last time he had been here, even worse if that was possible, clothes draped over every surface and dirty pants and socks all over the floor. Books on forensic science and criminology teetered in uneven piles around the large mahogany desk, which in turn was strewn with what looked like the entire contents of a chemistry lab, an enormous professional microscope taking the central place.

Sherlock rummaged under a particularly gross looking pile of dirty bed sheets and liberated a very expensive laptop from the filthy depths. He sat on the floor and flipped it open, already booted up, and set to work. John toed a pair of boxer briefs aside and sat down next to him, leaning his back against the desk chair.

“Not hacking into confidential police files again?”

“Oh no…I think we can do much better than that…let’s see if we can find out about this direct from the horse’s mouth”.

“I don’t understand”.

“There are eyes and ears all over this city John…you can find out almost anything you want to…if you know how…and who…to ask”.

“And who the fuck is that?”

“Anyone…everyone…that’s the fun part…but I think I can narrow it down a bit more than that…”

“I bloody hope so Sherlock…this is insane…what if turns out to be some fucking weirdo having a laugh, seriously, how can you trust someone on the other end of a computer keyboard?”

“Relax, country boy…we’re not arranging some seedy hook-up, it’s a little more sophisticated than that…I have a few….connections…you might call them…people who know how to be discreet…do things strictly off record so to speak”.

“Well that’s good to know Sherlock…as if we haven’t already attracted the attention of enough of London’s lunatics for the time being”.

John was only half-joking, the events of the past week all too clear in his mind and the physical evidence still visible on his skin. The threat was still very real, but he felt a frisson of excitement just the same.

“Shut up…you love all this” said Sherlock, as he turned to him with a smile “…you’re an adrenaline junkie…just like me” (I swear to god he can read my mind) John winced a little at the word ‘junkie’, dropped so casually, as if it wasn’t of major significance to them, to Sherlock specifically… the proverbial ‘elephant in the room’ and the catalyst for all the problems, mistakes and vitriolic anger that had followed since. But this, the danger, the puzzles, Sherlock in full flow, that fact that John would follow him anywhere, into anything, well, that was clearly an addiction too, of a different sort. No less destructive though.

Sherlock’s eyes were gleaming, as he tapped away at the keyboard firing off messages on various forums as far as John could make out. He pulled out his phone and sent a few texts too, flipping through contacts with his left hand while continuing to tap on the computer with his right, his ability to multi-task astounding as his brain clicked into overdrive. He looked so alive, and focused, a complete contrast to the shivering boy in the back of the van, and John couldn’t help but worry just how long it would last before he crashed when only an hour ago he had looked like he was barely hanging on.

“So what do we do while we wait?” he asked as Sherlock sat back against the chair with him, apparently finished for now.

“I can’t believe you have to ask”.

Okay, so this is happening, John thought, as Sherlock peeled his jacket off and tugged his t-shirt off over his head and then straddled his lap to unbuckle his jeans while tugging on an earlobe with his teeth. Oh god…this…multi-tasking…thing…must apply to sex stuff too, John thought, somewhat distracted by a lap-full of Sherlock, hastened to catch up, untangling his long arms enough to divest him of his top half and unfastening those too- tight fucking jeans. God help him if this was Sherlock with a cocaine-induced, suppressed libido. No symptoms of limp-dick here, thank you.

“Lift” he ordered and Sherlock raised his arse just enough for John to drag them part way down his legs, his flushed erection springing free for the second time that night. Zero to hard in the time it would take to say ‘fuck me’ apparently. Right…no pants…forgot about that for a second.

“Come on John”, Sherlock wriggled impatiently, fighting to push his jeans down his thighs and shove them the rest of the way down his legs, as if they didn’t have all night, as if this had to happen right now.

“Bossy” John huffed, “I thought you said I was in charge?”

“Really? You want me to beg?”. Sherlock was practically bouncing in his lap, bristling with pent-up energy again, mouthing along John’s jawline and neck. His hands froze in the act of unzipping his jeans as he helplessly grasped Sherlock’s slender waist instead.

Sherlock’s skin was already hot to the touch overlaid with a film of silky sweat. The smell of sex hung heavy in the air between them. John inhaled deeply, tasting it on the back of his throat and tongue. He had to get these jeans off now to relieve the almost painful press of his hot aching cock against the rough-edged denim seam. He squeezed a little tighter on Sherlock’s hips before pushing him back, off his lap, while curling a hand under the back of his head until he was spread out on his back on the floor. Sherlock peered up at him, heavy-lidded and panting , so aroused his cock was leaking in a steady stream, leaving a slick trail on his abdomen..

“God… just look at you…look how much you want it…” John gasped as he kicked his jeans the rest of the way off and crawled over Sherlock’s prone form, caging his body between his forearms. Sherlock stretched his head up, desperate for a kiss, back arching from the floor.

“Ah Ah!” John scolded, moving back, teasingly out of reach. Sherlock whined and made to grasp him round the back of the neck to pull him down. John laughed softly, enjoying his power and Sherlock’s complete lack of self-control as he pinned his wrists down , breathing deeply through his nose to calm his own pounding heart as Sherlock, bucked and writhed driven to the point of desperation by the lack of friction.

“John… _please_ …” he moaned.

“See…I knew I could make you beg for it…I would ask you to tell me what you would like me to do to you…but here’s what’s going to happen Sherlock…you’re just going to take it. Whatever. I. Want.” Each word punctuated as he ground down. He pulled away again, Sherlock almost sobbing with frustration.

It was a turn-on, watching Sherlock struggle underneath him and John wondered what that said about him, this aggression, the willingness to hurt and be hurt, and whether it was always like this between two men, sex, hovering on the brink of violence.

Or maybe he was just a dirty little pervert.

He stared down at Sherlock, flushed and sweating, held down against the bedroom floor. He looked debauched already, neck peppered with purple bruises, tight, erect nipples surrounded by John’s red teeth-marks, a reminder of their post-gig punch-up and fuck.

“Behave Sherlock…nod if you understand…” Sherlock bobbed his head frantically, chest heaving to drag down precious oxygen. “Okay…good” He was so beautiful like this, desperate and horny, body thrumming with excess energy in anticipation of John’s next move. He stroked a hand down Sherlock’s torso, feeling him quiver, suck in a shuddering breath, before melting silently into the touch. Seeing Sherlock so soft and pliant beneath him now shook every ounce of John’s self-control.

In one swift move he could push up on Sherlock’s thighs and roll his body back and just….just…shove his cock in and…fuck him.

“Keep still now…I want to open you up with my tongue” John hadn’t even realised that was his intention before the words spilled out of his mouth. He pushed himself backwards until he lay between Sherlock’s spread legs and pushed a pillow from the floor to tilt up his hips and arse. John poked his tongue out, lapping experimentally across the gently fluttering ring of muscle, drawing a slick wet trail before pressing down around Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock shifted restlessly, not even trying to stay still. He was probably too far gone by now, fisting handfuls of John’s short blond hair, hips stuttering reflexively with each swipe of John’s tongue. He stiffened the tip and pressed inside. Soft, smooth, velvety heat gripped him, huffing out hot breath through his nose against Sherlock’s balls and inner thigh. Going purely on instinct he wiggled it around and set up a rhythm pumping in and out.

“John, John, John…. _oh god_ …I want to come…I’m going to… _ah_ …”

Sherlock arched up, head thrown back, pushing at the back of John’s head as if to shove his tongue even further up his arse. John didn’t think that was even physically possible, he could barely breathe as it was. He reached between Sherlock’s legs, running his fingertips up the hot heavy shaft, sliding easily through a leaking trail of pre-come. Christ, Sherlock was soaking, and he had done that. But if he didn’t get his tongue out and fuck him now, it would all be over. If Sherlock came, John quite liked the idea of wanking over him and adding to the resulting sticky mess. John’s cock twitched in agreement, shit, he would look incredible like that.

Oh god, the noises he was making, throaty little moans, squeezing and flicking his own nipples with his free hand, rolling and pinching between finger and thumb. God, he was so fucking shameless John thought, sitting up to watch. He wrapped his left hand around Sherlock’s blood-red prick and slowly began to pump, long and slow at first, Sherlock slowing his frantic little bucks and moving in time with each stroke, feet planted firmly against the floor for purchase, thrusting up. John moved faster, quick and shallow around the head, a flick of a thumb across the slit and a twist of the wrist on the upstroke. He could feel the vibrations as Sherlock’s thighs began to shake, legs lifting from the floor to wrap tightly around John’s back as he leant over him.

“Look at me Sherlock…open your eyes…show me…show me how much this means…come on…” he pressed a finger gently inside him again, just to feel the deep, rolling contractions as Sherlock spurted thickly between them with a ragged groan.

“Please…let me kiss you now” he gasped.

“Yes…oh god… _yes_ ”

John leant down to kiss him deeply, Sherlock pulling and biting at his lip hungrily. He moved forward, straddling Sherlock’s sated body, “Can I?” he asked, fisting his own neglected cock.

“Do it John”.

He gripped harder, fucking up into his fist, chasing down his own orgasm. He was close, so damn close. “Sherlock…oh god” Sherlock wrapped his hand around too, long skilful fingers bringing him to the edge and pushing him over. His cock pulsed deeply, almost painfully and spilled over, splashing hotly against Sherlock’s smeared and filthy skin. He flopped forward with a groan, arms shuddering with the effort of holding himself up. He pushed himself up, arse resting against Sherlock’s softening cock and trailed his fingers through the sticky double mess on his smooth, white belly. He held his come coated digits up to Sherlock’s mouth with a smirk.

“Suck…lick it off…”

Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, parted his swollen lips, and snaked his tongue out. He licked a stripe up John’s fingers before sucking them eagerly into his mouth, ice-blue eyes locked on his own. Shit, his cock twitched with interest again, oblivious of the fact he was much too sensitive for even the lightest touch.

“Do you know what I wish I could do now?”

“Do you want me to tell you?…I can read it in the way you’re looking at me John”.

“Is that a challenge?”

“Something to remember for later perhaps….you wish you were hard again, don’t you? so you could slick your cock with my come and use the rest to lube-up my arse, push it inside when you stretch me open all hot and wet, clenching around your fingers…am I close?"

“Fuck…that was pure filth”.

“Great minds think alike… isn’t that the saying?”

“Did you just suggest I have a great mind Sherlock?”

“Oh god no….a fantastic cock though”.

“I really don’t know whether I should be offended ”.

“Mmm…most definitely not…come here you fucking gorgeous thing”.

Sherlock pulled him down, smearing their sweaty bodies together even more. They would need a shower, John thought, but after, after some very vigorous snogging. His cheeks stung slightly with the scrape of day-old stubble.

It was like the events of the previous week had never happened. Almost.

“Sherlock… did you mean it, back then…when you said you loved me? I mean, you weren’t just saying that so I would fuck you…forgive you for what you did…you know?”

Sherlock wriggled beneath him, surprisingly soft and warm. He pushed his hands up against John’s chest to gently prise them apart.

“I am not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean, and just in case you were wondering, I was in full charge of all my faculties when I made that declaration…just so you know…I wasn’t high at the time and I’m not now” Sherlock sucked in a breath, carefully watching every line and furrow on John’s face, picking his every reaction apart, “ and just to clarify” he said as he shuffled out from underneath him and pushed himself up from the floor, “I’ve never actually said it before, not to anyone…just in case you were wondering….only you John”.

It was quite the speech, coming from Sherlock, the longest they had ever spoken on the subject of messy ‘feelings’ and John had a pretty good idea why he had chosen to say this now. Victor Trevor, the fly in the ointment. Sherlock making clear that whatever had gone on between them it had not been motivated by love. At least on Sherlock’s side. So what had it been? Just sex? John bit his lip and willed away the tight, sickly knot in his chest. Sherlock had made his intentions clear now, so maybe it was best to bury this. He should drop it now.

“Stop thinking so much and get over here…and bring a blanket, I’m bloody cold”.

“Of course you are you idiot, that would be because you’re sort of naked, or had you forgotten?”

“Clothes are just so boring John”.

John paused to admire for a second, the glorious sight of Sherlock crawling across the bedroom floor on his hands and knees stark bollock naked, arse cheeks wiggling as he shuffled along. He grabbed a t-shirt crumpled t-shirt first, and balled it up, throwing it at Sherlock’s retreating back. John was pretty sure he was doing it on purpose, for maximum effect. It would have been a whole lot easier to just get up and walk.

“You might want to wipe up a bit first” he said, as the t-shirt smacked Sherlock on the back of the neck and slid down his shoulder.

“I should make you do it” Sherlock shot him a dark look over his shoulder “half of it is yours after all”.

He picked up the t-shirt anyway and rubbed absently at his skin as he settled cross-legged in front of his lap-top screen. John yanked the duvet off the bed and padded over to sit down beside him. Sherlock had bright red marks on his shoulder blades to add to his collection of injuries, the result of being pinned on a hard wooden floor. He was sure Sherlock would get his own back in time. John spread out the soft material to cover them both leaning a little against Sherlock, still needing to be close.

Sherlock refreshed the page he had been working on and clicked on the Home icon, hissing in surprise and delight at the sight of a bursting inbox. He scrolled through message after message, expression clouding at he quickly assessed and discarded them one by one. John had never seen anyone work so fast, if it was him it would take hours to go through close to a hundred messages. But this was Sherlock, and only he knew what he was looking for.

There.

Sherlock paused, eyes flickering over the same few lines of text several times before he attacked the keyboard, typing out and firing off a reply. It had all been a blur to John, which wasn’t surprising when the main thoughts in his head were still _sex_ and _cock_ and that’s _so good_ , oh god.

Sherlock prodded him in the arm “As I was saying…when you’ve quite finished drooling on my shoulder, I think we might have something”.

“What? Jesus sorry, drifted off a bit…twice in one night…I’m bloody knackered” he yawned widely just to emphasise his point.

“Quite” Sherlock smirked, “You’ll have to work on your stamina then, because I plan on having you again…. right now” he reached out his left hand and let his fingers trail slowly up John’s thigh. He jolted with the pure electric shock of it, body responding automatically to the touch like Pavlov’s fucking dog.

So he was in charge tonight? Yeah, right.

“Jesus…Sherlock”.

“Oh relax John….even I don’t have the energy to go again…yet”, Sherlock emphasised the ‘t’ with a click of his tongue. John sagged with disappointment and relief as Sherlock removed his fingers from John’s flushed skin and steepled his hands under his chin instead, eyes fixed on a flashing chat icon. The screen burst into life and Sherlock sat bolt upright, alert.

“So who the hell is….. Wiggy 24?”

John squinted at the screen, reading the name next to an icon of a tan and white weasel. “Do you know him, or is he some internet random…that you randomly… chat to?”

“Very eloquent John…Actually I do know him…quite well in fact, but he’s been off the grid for a while and I wasn’t sure…” Sherlock paused to cast a searching look at John, “if he was still alive or not”.

“Seriously? Was he ill, old, what? Come on, I’m not going to blow up if you’ve shagged him in the past... I’m over all that now”.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, clearly questioning his state of mind, knowing that if he was hooked up to a lie-detector he would fail miserably right now. John remembered a split second too late to unclench his fists. His nails had left a pretty ring of indentations in his palms.

It was useless to hope that Sherlock hadn’t noticed. Damn.

“Bonus points for trying John, but wrong on both counts” Sherlock went on, ignoring John’s twitch of guilt and discomfort “he’s one of my connections…a ‘Homeless Network’ if you will, a mixture of acquaintances, friends and associates…”

It wasn’t exactly difficult to work out where Sherlock had met these so-called friends, not the usual habitat for a wealthy, privately educated kid, that’s for certain. John tried to picture Sherlock on the streets, doing whatever he did to get the money for a fix.

What then? A crack den? Dirty mattresses on the floor, zippo lighters and stolen teaspoons, discarded needles and syringes clouded with blood?

Sherlock had never said just where he had done this stuff, but it could hardly have been under Mycroft’s nose in his own sodding bedroom. Off your face meant careless, he already knew that from the bitter experience of an alcoholic sister and mother – go so far down that road and you abandon any attempts at hiding your vice from the people you love, he doubted whether Sherlock had been any different in this respect.

So John filled in the blanks himself. Sometimes what Sherlock didn’t say was more important that what he did. And he hadn’t denied the existence of ex-lovers amongst these rather generic categories, or said what the particular nature of their association was. Like ‘acquaintance’ that could mean anything from someone you met once at a party or something, or someone you see every day, but don’t really hang out with. He tried to keep his voice neutral, enquiry casually nonchalant.

“So, this ‘Wiggy 24’….?”

Sherlock interjected before the words had barely left his mouth, as if he had been telepathically reading his thoughts.

“For god’s sake John, you are utterly transparent sometimes…we were never involved in the way you seem to be imagining…Billy Wiggins is a 14 years old runaway for god’s sake, that’s why he’s so hard to keep track of, he can’t afford to be caught by police or the Social Services Department”.

Fuck. Fourteen? How bad must your life be at that age to see the streets as a viable alternative? John could barely manage to make himself a meal at that age, or how to turn the fucking washing machine on.

“Aren’t there places where kids like him can go, Local Authority places, hostels and stuff?”

Sherlock gave a derisive snort “What….would he be better off at home with a father who beats him and a mother staring at the bottom of a wine bottle every night, or in the lovely system perhaps, unsatisfactory foster care or a Council run Children’s Home, then back out to fend for himself anyway the minute he turns sixteen? The system couldn’t cope with Billy Wiggins…believe me, I know”.

“What, you mean he’s like you, or he’s just generally out of control?”

“Wouldn’t you say I’m both?” Sherlock gave a wry smile, “But yes, like me in a way, not in every way though….anyway..”

Sherlock stretched out his arms and stifled a yawn, bones clicking in his elbows, before hunching back down in front of the flickering screen. He logged out of the website and closed the laptop down. “Dalton Road, that’s where the big fire is, so that’s where we need to go. Billy will meet us there, well as close as he’s willing to get with the high police presence”.

He stood up and let the duvet slide of his shoulders to bunch up on the floor, leaving John eye level with his arse. What choice did he have but to stare, skin prickling with the sense memory of having his tongue up there half an hour ago.

Sherlock held out a hand, “Shower before we go? I’m filthy”.

“Yes, you bloody well are”.

~*~

Well this was all going rather better than expected. Some residual jealousy and anger, yes, but that was a normal, natural reaction when absolutely none of this had been John’s fault. Sherlock had never bothered with the sentimental claptrap of ‘counting your blessings’ before, but decided to give it a try, just this once.

John’s face, John’s arse, his lips, his firm toned thighs and gorgeous long, thick cock. A checklist of John-ness in his head. Did body parts count? Sherlock paused in his mental appraisal to give the matter a full two seconds thought and decided that yes, every part of John, every single molecule was infinitely important. That was why, when they stepped into the shower together he decided to show John exactly how much.

A quick visual scan would be enough to tell anyone just who was in need of a thorough scrub-down. He looked like such a shameless tart with mussed up hair, a split lip, bite-marks and bruises, overlaid with flakes of dried-on come. But John didn’t appear to mind at all. In fact he was positively radiant as he tugged Sherlock down by the hair into a fierce, messy kiss.

“I want to take a picture of you, just like this…all marked up and filthy after you’ve just been fucked” John whispered into the shell of his ear making his entire body shudder.

“And maybe next time, I’ll let you” because right now, he wouldn’t deny John a single damn thing, would do anything he asked, to reassure him that this was it, he was in it for the long haul. Sherlock roughly grasped the sides of John’s face and swept a hot insistent tongue into his mouth, pushing him back until the spray cascaded between them and John was pressed firmly against the slick tiled wall. He pulled away, panting slightly and half-hard. John held him around his waist and pressed his brow down onto Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing heavily through his nose. His voice came out thick and rasping as he slowly raised his head to look at Sherlock.

“Every bloody time…you just touch me, or kiss me and fuck…we have to stop now or we’re never getting out of this bloody bathroom”.

“Well you bloody well better make it up to me later, the rim-job was spectacular but I still need to ride your cock…and we’ll both be sharing a bed here later anyhow” he gave John’s arse a parting squeeze and reached behind him to turn up the spray on the shower.

“I notice you didn’t say sleeping”.

“No, and the omission was quite intentional John”.

Sherlock pumped a good handful of shower gel from a glass dispenser on the wall and soaped up his hands with fragrant citrus foam. He ran his coated palms down John’s neck and sides, rubbing over wet, slippery skin in smooth, firm circles. He could tell exactly where John was still tender and sore simply by feel and the barely perceptible twitches he made when Sherlock’s fingers traced over the patchwork of multi-coloured bruises scattered across his torso. John’s hands shot up to still the movement, fingers curled loosely around Sherlock’s wrists, guiding them back to his hips.

“Looks worse than it feels, so you can stop blaming yourself, and if you’d been with me they only would have done the same to you and probably a damn site worse”, his deep blue eyes demanded that Sherlock look at him, naked and wet, water running down his face and body in rivulets. He knew what John was thinking, that if he had been there, he would have been subjected to much more than a physical attack.

Sherlock remembered foul breath on his neck in a dingy alley and a hand reaching into his pants. If John hadn’t appeared at that moment, he doubted whether he would have been able to fight back.

“You think you’re so immune to all this emotional stuff, but I know you Sherlock Holmes, you give away more than you think you do”.

“How?” Sherlock was intrigued, usually only Mycroft picked up on his subtle emotional tells, and even then, only on rare occasions.

“Because I can see it in your eyes, and that funny little crease you get along the top of your nose”.

Sherlock freed a hand and touched a finger to his face, and there it was, he could feel it, a little horizontal furrow.

“Now shut up and turn around”.

He dutifully turned and let John soap his body before directing the spray onto both of them to rinse off. He had to focus now, Billy wouldn’t wait indefinitely and he had been lucky to track him down so quickly this time round. He had probably been in an internet café, but none of them had twenty-four hour opening and they would be closed by now. That would mean Billy would be lost to the rabbit warren of London’s hideaway’s and squats and it could take days to track him down again. Even that wasn’t a certainty, even for him. He hadn’t exaggerated, Billy was clever and more than capable of avoiding even the most ardent of pursuits.

“Sherlock?.... _Sherlock_!”

He started, head whipping round to face John. He stood on the bath rug, towel wrapped around his waist, with an expression of sheer horror. Sherlock’s stomach flipped over, he had absolutely no recollection of getting out of the shower, so he must, at some point in the last ten minutes, have completely zoned out.

But why was John looking at him that way, what had he done?

Sherlock glanced at his discarded towel on the floor and then to his body, where the nails of his left hand had scored livid red scratches down his right arm, some of which had started to bleed a little, tiny beads of red welled up.

“Stop…just stop…you’re hurting yourself”.

For the second time that night John placed a steady, warm hand over his own. He blinked in the harsh light, ashamed and confused.

“Are you okay Sherlock?....how long…do you need…? Oh god, sorry I really don’t know what I should be saying, doing….talk to me for fuck’s sake Sherlock”.

“It itches…I didn’t even….when did we get out of the shower?” he sat down heavily on the toilet seat and bent over, head between his legs.

“Shit, you’re not going to vom are you? Christ, just hang on”.

He could hear John rummaging around under the sink for the wastepaper basket and felt the touch of smooth plastic as John set it down on the floor in front of him. The tap turned on and off again and a beaker of cold water was pressed into his unresisting hand.

“Sip this, and hold each breath for the count of three, or you’re going to start hyperventilating Sherlock”.

John’s voice was calm and steady now, fingers pressed to the side of his neck to check his pulse. Too fast, erratic, he could tell that himself. John touched his chin, gently, and he tilted his head back in silent compliance to let John look into his eyes. John dropped his chin and Sherlock sipped the water silently, breathing steadily in and out, just like John had told him and willed his body to calm down.

“You stupid fucking idiot…Jesus Sherlock”

John sat on the edge of the bath, shaking his head, “One week and you come back a fucked-up mess…what the hell have you done to yourself?”

“In polite circles I think you would call it a relapse” he said shakily, shivering a little as the heat from the shower ebbed away, leaving the room unpleasantly cool. “Besides, I always was a fucked-up mess, I just hid it well”.

“Polite circles my arse…and I see it doesn’t stop you being a cocky, arrogant shit, but what now?”

“By that I take it you mean, am I going to use right here, in front of you despite my promise to stop?....this is what I am John, this is what I’m capable of…but no, Mycroft did a sweep this afternoon so there isn’t anything left here even if I wanted to”.

“And do you want to?”

“Right now? What do you think? Of course I fucking do….but I would never John…not in front of you”.

“Well do that….not in front of me…whatever gets you through this, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with it Sherlock, cause I’m not…I’m fucking furious…so what now?” he added nervously as Sherlock calmly handed him the half-full beaker before sinking to his knees and vomiting messily into the toilet, hands clenched around the cold white porcelain. He lifted his head with a grimace and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“I’ll ask Billy to fix me a low dose, just enough to relieve the withdrawl symptoms, he’s an excellent chemist…almost as good as I am”.

“He’s just a kid Sherlock”.

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t good at his job John, and I trust him, he’ll know exactly how much I need to take the edge off”.

“What…he’s a dealer?”

“Of course not…more of a caretaker if you like…babysitting smackheads so they don’t o.d., wiping fevered brows, sourcing clean needles, and getting rid of any used-up shit, a veritable Florence Nightingale of the drug-addled underclass is our Wiggy”, he laughed hollowly.

“Yeah, that doesn’t mean it’s alright Sherlock” John said in an exasperated voice as he grasped him by the hand to pull him up, fingers wound together painfully tight. He turned, leading Sherlock back out into the bedroom, casting his eyes around to locate their hastily discarded clothes.

“Come on, let’s get moving…it’ll be fine…you’ll be fine” he muttered, bending down to pick up his jeans and t-shirt. Sherlock wondered which of them he really trying to reassure.

“Of course, I’ll be fine” he said, kicking around the crap on the floor for a half-decent pair of pants, clean laundry that he hadn’t bothered to put away muddled up with the dirty washing in an untidy heap. He picked up a black pair that still felt quite fresh and gave them a cautious sniff. Fabric conditioner, Comfort Blue Skies, he pulled them on and tugged them up over his skinny hips. John gave a growl of frustration, unable to locate his own underwear, so Sherlock tossed him another pair, aiming for an aura of calm and normality that he didn’t feel, skin still crawling and stomach roiling dangerously again.

“I know I’ll be fine John” he smiled, “only a fool argues with his doctor”.

~*~

After two more trips back to the bathroom to spew and half a bottle of Oral-B mouthwash, they were ready to go. Sherlock had piled on some extra layers, a soft fleece zip-up, a relic from a school camping trip (that thankfully didn’t irritate his itching skin), and black DM’s with thick socks instead of the ubiquitous thin canvas Converse. The shivering continued, regardless.

There were more delays while John fussed around, concocting a ridiculous quantity of warm milky tea in a large glass measuring jug. He poured it into a big silver thermos flask that Sherlock had never even seen before. (And this was his bloody house) Sherlock sat on a high stool at the breakfast bar, absently munching on a packet of bland salted crisps, a Mars Bar in front of him, next in line. It was the first thing John had done when they came downstairs, searched the kitchen cupboards for something quick and edible. Sherlock of course, had made his protests known.

“Are you trying to make me sick again, because I doubt this rubbish is going to help”.

John popped the bag and shoved it into his hand, “I’ll take the risk thank you, I promised Greg I’d look out for you tonight, now shut the fuck up and eat before I make you go back to bed and tuck you in with a bloody hot water bottle”.

“You’ll look ridiculous by the way” he said peevishly, licking the remnants of salt from oily fingertips, as John fished a battered old backpack out of the under-stairs cupboard in the hall. “This isn’t a boy scout’s camping trip…what next? Pitching a tent and toasting marshmallows over the glowing red embers? It’s a crime scene John, not a jolly little jaunt”.

It was annoying when John just ignored him. Especially when trying his utmost to provoke a reaction. Anything was better than the high-pitched whine currently banging around in his skull. Sherlock rejected the chocolate bar, pushing it aside, lips pressed firmly in a thin line. He had managed the crisps, therefore, as far as he was concerned he was done. John just snatched it up angrily and stuffed it in the backpack instead, along with the flask of tea and two plastic bottles of water.

“Come on then you poor delicate flower”, he said, tugging on the end of Sherlock’s scarf, “we need to make a move or you’ll miss all the fun”.

~*~

The cab dropped them off in the back lane of a long residential street, cast mostly in darkness save for the street lamps placed at intervals of every ten houses or so. Plenty of shadowy places in which to hide. Sherlock cast around, looking for the most likely meeting place while John climbed out behind him, slamming the door and shouldering his bag with a sigh.

“Is he here yet? Are we at the right end because this is the longest fucking street I’ve ever seen in my life”.

Sherlock wasn’t sure. Billy had been vague on the details, understandably, but it was still mildly irritating not to know, and truly, John was right, the street stretched out into the darkness, the other end obscured in the eerie orange light.

“Shouldn’t we move or something, I feel a bit conspicuous standing here” John shuffled uncomfortably, nudging at Sherlock’s arm.

“No, he needs to see us and see that we’re alone. In this scenario you don’t find Billy, he finds you” Sherlock twirled a little on the spot, eyes searching this way and that despite what he had just said. He was impatient, antsy and had the beginnings of a spectacular headache building up pressure behind his right eye making him squint in the half-light. He resisted the urge to shake his head.

They were in the right place. The air around them was heavy with the smell of thick, acrid smoke which made his eyes sting and water and caught at the back of his throat. A back gate creaked open to their right, battered red wood set in brick. He gave a nervous jump cursing at his own shattered nerves as a middle-aged man appeared, followed by a fat little dog. He felt a tug on his arm and a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him down into a forceful kiss.

“We’re just a couple having a quiet snog on the way home” John whispered into his ear, “Just move along mate, nothing to see here”.

He licked into Sherlock’s mouth again and slipped a hand inside his coat to gently squeeze his waist. Sherlock could hear the faltering footsteps, the uncertainty and a scrape of a sole on concrete as the man continued down the street, the snuffling dog following in his wake. It was too nice to stop though, relaxing into the soft slide and plump wetness of John’s lips against his, moving forward as John parted his legs to drag Sherlock into the space in between.

This was starting to get interesting.

“Ahem”.

Damn you Billy Wiggins. Sherlock cursed inwardly as John jolted against his mouth, catching the edge of Sherlock’s lip with his teeth.

“Can’t you see we’re busy?” he huffed angrily at the small skinny figure, swamped within the confines of a thick green coat. Second hand army surplus, of German origin. Billy Wiggins was small for his age with hooded, red-rimmed eyes and a gratingly nasal voice, the relic of too many beatings at the hands of his father and badly repaired broken nose. He was thin and wiry with sallow undernourished skin, but his eyes flashed defiantly, alight with a razor-sharp intelligence.

Sherlock had met him a year ago, in Shepherd’s Bush, just off Askew Road. Billy had been shoplifting and Sherlock had dragged him up a fire escape and into the second storey window of a boarded-up shop to avoid pursuit by two very angry security guards. Billy had offered him some smack and a place to crash, and the rest, as they say, was history.

(Not that the hard drugs were Billy’s fault, he’d been speedballing on a semi- regular basis long before that).

“Go ahead, I aint stopping ya, it’s not as if I don’t know you’re a bender Shez so each to ‘is own…bit scratchy though innit snoggin another bloke?”

“Thank you for your glowing indictment on my sexual preferences Billy , I’ll bear that in mind”.

“A bit pissy tonight are we Shezza? I’d say you could do wiv a little somethin so you can simmer the fuck down”.

“Good observational skills Billy” he snapped, “did you do what I asked, do you have it here?”

Billy winked conspiratorially and reached into the pocket of his second hand German army parka, drawing out a slide-top plastic bag. A small stoppered bottle filled with cloudy liquid and a sterile package containing a syringe a swab and a sticking plaster were clearly visible within. Just the sight of it made his heart rate speed up. Sherlock imagined if he pulled up his t-shirt you would see it, pounding madly in and out of his chest. It was a different feeling to when he was in bed with John, or something as simple as standing near him.

“There ya go Shezza…a seven per cent solution should do ya, just to keep things tickin over”.

He held out his hand and Sherlock snatched at the bag pushing it hastily into his pocket, ashamed of his weakness. John had been hanging back at little, mildly amused at the snarky exchange and glad that for once he wasn’t the one on the receiving end. But the sight of the bag made him gasp and start forward. Billy looked on in open amusement.

“What…you’re going to do that here…now? I was under the impression we were here to visit a crime scene not shoot up with illegal drugs” his lowered voice screamed ‘seriously pissed off’, “Are you fucking insane Sherlock?”

“No worries Doc, ‘ee’ll be alright, made under lab conditions with me own fair hands”.

Sherlock stifled a groan. Billy sticking his oar in wouldn’t appease John it would only serve to piss him off even more. This was not what he wanted from tonight, no more rows, he was done with all that.

“I wasn’t bloody well talking to you” John rounded on Billy who surprisingly backed down, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “And Doc? Where the hell did you get that from?”

“Look stop now, it’s okay John I’m good for now” he stepped in between them, and slid his palm around John’s clenched hand. “I sort of gave you a pseudonym, anyway” he said in a rush turning around hurriedly to avoid John’s indignant glare.

“So Billy, what do we have now?” he turned to face the scrawny boy, more than surprised that he hadn’t buggered off. He sagged just a little as John relaxed at his side, shifting his body weight to lean into Sherlock’s arm. Crisis avoided for now.

“It was a fair old fuckin blaze Shez…took three fire crews to get it under control in the end, must’ve bin going for a good twenty minutes before they got here, don’t know who called it in, neighbour probably, but it was a right ole fuckin circus, ‘alf the bleedin street were out…scared it would spread along the roof cavities, common in these old ‘ouses”

Billy spoke with a seriousness and wisdom way beyond his fourteen years. It would have been chilling, if Sherlock didn’t recognise in Billy a bit of himself.

“Hmm yes, I know” Sherlock considering what the boy had said, “Accelerant then, deliberate?”

“Yeah, I should say so, I did some digging after I spoke to you…the property was registered to some American businessman and ‘partner’, six month short-term lease, previous address somewhere in Florida”.

Sherlock was impressed. When he had asked Billy to do a little advance digging, he hadn’t expected him to come up with all this. His ears pricked up with the mention of Florida. An American connection again. Interesting. Was it significant or could it just be coincidence?

“Anything else” he pressed, “A name perhaps?”

“Nah sorry Shez, but that forensic’s bloke, the one who looks like a ferret peering through a lavvy brush that fuckin hates ya?, they let ‘is lot in about ‘alf an hour ago by my reckonin”

“Anderson. Fuck. That’s more than enough time for that idiot to trample all over the evidence…my source suggested bodies?”

“Ah that’d be the copper that’s shagging yer bruvver?...can’t confirm…but if there was anyone inside I doubt they would’ve stood a fuckin chance”.

“Especially if they already happened to be dead….come on John, time to crash your first crime scene…we have work to do”.

He set off along the street, guided by the stench in the air and the general hum of activity. As they rounded the corner the scene unfolded, several police cars and an ambulance still waiting outside a cordoned-off house, the crew milling around drinking tea out of Styrofoam cups. That increased the likelihood of casualties, the lack of urgency suggestive of the fact the victims (if there were any) were well beyond help.

“I aint going no closer Shezza…see ya around sometime?” Billy hovered uncertainly shielded from the rest of the street by a looming four-wheel drive. Thoughtless Sherlock, he chided himself, digging into his jeans for a twenty pound note and squashing it into Billy’s hand.

“I…appreciate your help Billy” he stuttered, feeling like an idiot. Billy, however, beamed back at him.

“Your new bloke teachin you some manners eh Shezza? Not like you to thank any fucker for anythin”.

Sherlock just scowled as he watched him melt back into the shadows and quickly jog away. The cheeky little shit.

“Knows you well then” John chuckled beside him.

“Shut up…I always say thank you… to you…”

John flashed his best disbelieving frown “Sherlock…you do know ‘ _oh god yes John’_ doesn’t really count?”

“Doesn’t it? I thought it was rather effective….expressing my gratitude for your sexual prowess is exactly the same as a thank you”.

“You never stop, do you?”

“Only for a juicy crime scene, the work John, that’s what matters, that, and you are the only things that keep me sane…”

“Bullshit, you’re as mad as a box of frogs all the time”.

“And that’s exactly the way you like me”.

“Sherlock, what exactly are you hoping to find out here, it’s not as if they’re going to invite you in for a look around”.

“To observe John, I don’t have to get inside the building to understand what’s going on…that for instance” he said. He dropped to a crouch behind Volks Wagon Polo pulling John down beside him.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“There, we have a visitor, and he looks rather pleased about something don’t you think?”

He pointed in the direction of a large group of people, milling around the area behind the police line. The distinctive cropped red hair and tall, burly figure of Marcus Hunt stood, alone, dragging deeply on a cigarette.

“Now what the hell is he doing here, it’s a long way from the Powell Estate and the club, and this would be his busiest night of the week”

“Not just sightseeing then” John added, “look, didn’t you say he drove a black BMW?, look…down there, behind that blue Ford Focus”

Sherlock squinted in the direction John had pointed, the distinctive black car just visible about thirty yards further along. His presence just didn’t make sense. In the time Sherlock had been aware of him, because let’s face it, he had needed a reliable source, Marcus would never pass up the opportunity to fleece the drunken youth of London on a weekend to come and spectate at house fire. At the least it was ghoulish, if not extremely suspicious. Yeah, okay, he didn’t have a valid reason to be here either, other than (not so) idle curiosity and the need to score from an old acquaintance.

There was John too. In some ridiculous way that he couldn’t quite fathom he was doing all this to impress him. Look John, see, Sherlock isn’t really a fucked-up mess, wild and impetuous and clever, yes, and he can give you that danger you so desperately crave, but he’s not a lost cause…yet. Because that was what he had tasted on the inside of John Watson’s mouth, a craving for the dark side, something that Sherlock was more than able to provide. John was hungry tonight, he had already proved that and he was hovering on the edge of something else now, something exciting and dangerous.

Sherlock shivered again, with the thrill of possibility before them.

“Come on John, we need to move a little closer”

Hiding behind a car was bound to call unwanted attention if they lingered much longer, anyway, so Sherlock pushed up from his crouched position on the pavement’s edge. He was just about to move off, to blend with the other nosy residents behind the police lines when John placed a warning hand on his arm to stop him.

“Sherlock…we can’t get any closer, not with what you’ve got stashed in your pocket, think about it, if anybody recognises you it’s sod’s law that they’ll do a stop and search…you know, _reasonable suspicion_ and all that?”

John peered at him anxiously, his finger’s curled tightly around his coat sleeve. Usually he would plough right ahead and to hell with the consequences, but tonight was about sharing the work, showing John what life could be, like this, together. The master plan did not include arrest for possession.

“You stay here then…I’ll go and get rid of it” John’s gaze didn’t falter, nor did he recoil. He nodded once, a quick bob of the head and dropped his hand back down to his side to let Sherlock go. “If it makes you feel any better I’m going to feel like shit again in the morning”

Because they both knew what ‘ _getting rid of_ ’ really meant.

“Funnily enough that doesn’t make me feel better Sherlock, no…”

Well, it would be ridiculous on his part to expect any other response. John turned his back and did that annoyingly transparent ‘I’m pretending to look at something on my phone but really I’m just too pissed off to talk right now’. Also this way, he didn’t have to bear witness as Sherlock unravelled.

He retreated back the way they had come, and cast around for a suitable place to hide. This wasn’t new, he had done this countless times before, but this time it felt tainted and wrong. There was a betting shop at the end of the street, with a side gate closed with a simple drop catch. A swift, well placed kick with his boot sent the gate bursting open and he sprang forward to stop it crashing back onto the brick wall. The yard was dark and empty, wet with the overflow from ancient plastic guttering. There was a low brick coal-house with a flat concrete top, a relic from the days before gas central heating sitting unused and crumbling by an old outdoor toilet.

Sherlock hopped up and sat on the cold damp surface, taking out the needle and bottle from his pocket, weighing them in his hand. Did he really need to do this? Could he wait a few more hours? The answers were no, and possibly, a good enough reason to stop this now. But Sherlock had never claimed to be good, quite the opposite in fact, and John knew and accepted that. Better get on with it then.

Belt off, mini Maglite clamped between lips to shed some light, swab the skin, tie round arm, wait for veins to pop. Twist off bottle cap, sink needle in, fill chamber with swirling liquid. Steel into flesh, watch chamber swirl fresh red blood, press back, push it all back into his body. The work of a minute, done, a plaster pressed to the puncture wound, the debris dropped through a gap in the brickwork, gone.

Besides, he thought, it was naïve in the extreme to think he could stop overnight, that was the reality.

Sherlock jumped down again and slipped through the gateway, dropping the latch behind him.

“That was quick…you okay?” John asked when he joined him again seconds later, the concern in his eyes genuine. his head already free of the creeping unease and anxiety. How to answer.

Would John prefer the truth, or a sugar-coated lie? Well the fact that he was still here, waiting, counted for a hell of a lot.

Truth it was then.

“Infinitely better. I no longer feel like I have a steel band playing in my skull or insects trying to scour my skin from the inside. I actually feel human again. I must say John, you’re being very accepting of all this now when you almost laid into Billy earlier”

“What else can I do? I thought about it. You got yourself in a mess again, and I’m going to help you get out of it. But one step at a time eh, I would be an idiot to believe you could kick this overnight, I know that you stupid arse, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be all, yeah, fine ”

“I don’t deserve you” he blurted, before his internal filter kicked in. Expressing emotions to anyone inevitably ended badly. It was all so messy and strange, this openness. “You came back, and you stayed and no-one’s ever bothered to do that for me, anyone else, anyone sane, would have ran a fucking mile by now. Why?”

“I’m not just anyone, and I’m not quite sane myself Sherlock, just in case you hadn’t noticed, and you seem to bring out the worst in me…in a good way if that makes sense?”

“No. You made that about as clear as mud John, but then absolutely nothing about you seems to make any logical sense”.

“And from you, that’s actually a compliment isn’t it? John smiled, the crinkly one, it made the knawing ache inside Sherlock’s chest ease just a little.

“Well we can’t just stand here all night, there’s work to be done (neatly averted outpouring of emotion), let’s see how far I can push it before they tell me to fuck off and go home”

“Oh god, you’re not Sherlock, please say you’re not just going to rock up there and demand access”

“Why would I demand anything when they’re just going to let me in of their own accord?”

He hoped anyway. It depended on who was in charge. It would all be so much easier once Greg made D.I, then Sherlock could access as many crime scenes as he would want, and waiting was tedious.

John shouldered the bag and followed him down the street, walking purposefully. If Marcus Hunt saw him, no matter, Sherlock was more than interested to gage his reaction even though that was not his main objective, the true path lay inside that building.

The house was a wreck, the roof none existent, only a few blackened beams remaining. The upstairs windows had blown out completely leaving dark gaping maws of jagged glass and charred black brick. Downstairs the windows remained intact and the front door was broken and twisted beyond saving where the fire crew battered it down to gain access once the fire had been brought under control.

One team remained, the thick-set crew member consulting with a beleaguered looking paramedic. The fireman clasped a hand to his shoulder and paramedic nodded his head, then walked briskly back to the ambulance to have a hurried conversation with the rest of his team.

“Oh no, did we miss all the fun?” Sherlock ignored John’s scandalised expression as they took a place beside the tall muscular figure of Marcus Hunt. He merely grunted in response. “Don’t you recognise me, we did a little exchange about a week ago?”

Marcus directed his gaze to Sherlock, and his eyes momentarily widened before he steadied himself and fixed then both with an icy glare. “Fuck off kid, I’m off duty tonight so you and your boyfriend can go and get your kicks somewhere else”

“I’ve already had my ‘kicks’ as you so elegantly put it…anyone you know?” he inclined his head towards the burnt out shell.

The fire crew had moved out, reversing down the street to head back into the city to the main depot. A harassed looking policewoman stood arguing with a white van- man who had driven up behind them and was now vociferously arguing over who had right of way. Sherlock huffed a laugh. The officer was Sally Donovan and if the driver wasn’t careful he would be lucky to get away with his balls still intact. However, her presence tonight could be to his distinct advantage.

“Haven’t a clue, just saw all the pretty lights and shit, so I just felt like havin a look, anyway I could ask the same of you, what makes it your fucking business…?” he didn’t finish his (probably insulting) sentence, lip curled in an arrogant sneer, which quickly fell away, eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s left shoulder.

“Laterz” he muttered, and turned on his heel, walking swiftly to his car parked, front end facing away from them, further up the road.

Coming from that direction just to ‘have a look’ as he claimed, he would have been stopped like that van just had, unless he had already been here, before it started, Sherlock mused. He chided himself. Evidence not idle conjecture, that was what he needed, proof. Well, really it was just a chance to show-off in front of John again, to be called _brilliant_ and _wonderful_ and _amazing_ and fantasise about fucking him in some dark, private corner somewhere on the way home.

Sherlock estimated he had at least 3 more seconds until the bomb dropped….3..2..

“You, why the bloody hell are you lurking around here freak show?”

Only 2 seconds, she must have been moving faster than he had thought. Although in her case, Sherlock’s presence always elicited a speedy response.

“Sally, how marvellous to see you, is Greg around?”

“Hang on a minute…is there any need to call him that…?” John looked furious on his behalf. He had his jaw clenched and his lips pinched together in anger. If Sherlock could have puffed out his chest like a proud peacock he would have.

Sally just looked down her nose at John with her lip curled. “Who are you then, his minder? Cause whatever he’s paying you isn’t enough”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Just ignore her, it’s immaterial John”

“But she…”

“Again…it’s nothing, Sally and I are old pals”

“Yeah right” she scoffed, pulling a walkie talkie from a clip on her belt. She stood in front of them, arms folded, her dark brown gaze never wavered once.

“There’s a thin line between love and hate Sally” he smirked.

“Oh yeah, and what about between loathe and despise…. _He’s here Greg, just like you said_ ” She grinned triumphantly at them both. “If it was up to me, every time you showed up at a scene, I’d slap you in cuffs”

“Good job it’s not up to you then isn’t it?” he grinned back triumphantly.

Greg Lestrade emerged from the house next door in the company of a grey-haired, overweight Detective Inspector by the name of Peterson. He was the wrong side of sixty, one of the old guard who always looked rumpled, like he’d slept in his suit, with a red veiny nose which revealed his on-going love affair with the whiskey bottle, and the yellow stained fingers of a rampant nicotine addiction (maybe he could bum cigarette, nicotine would stave-off the come-down) But for some unfathomable reason, Peterson genuinely seemed to like Sherlock, as in listened to him, and believed in him, not just tolerated his presence, or worse, tell him to sod off.

“Sherlock lad, haven’t seen you at one of these in a while, is that new school of yours working you too hard?”

Hardly, he thought, considering they’re all fucking morons.

“What are you dealing with Detective Inspector, I wouldn’t expect to see you at an ordinary house fire?”

Peterson waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Donovan gave an audible groan.

“Don’t encourage him sir, he shouldn’t even be here and it’s well past his bedtime”

“You could learn a thing or two from this lad Donovan, he’s bloody marvellous” he exclaimed in a thick Yorkshire accent, clapping a large meaty hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He sagged under the onslaught while Sally rolled her eyes. He signalled to Greg, to hand him a laptop, and beckoned Sherlock over to a nearby squad car. He placed it on the bonnet and the screen sprang to life, and Sherlock crowded in, John standing close by his shoulder, pressed in against him.

“Hope you haven’t just ‘ad yer tea lads, you’ll need a strong stomach for this one” the D.I drew a pair of black-rimmed spectacles from his pocket and rammed them on his nose. It changed his appearance from wily detective to ageing civil servant. The transformation did not instil confidence, making him look old and tired.

“John is currently training to be a doctor, I doubt the sight of a corpse will alarm him” Sherlock sighed impatiently, waiting for permission to open the file.

Peterson nodded and he clicked on the first image of a bedroom, badly charred, with an old fashioned iron bedframe taking up almost the entire back wall. A body lay stretched out on the bare mattress, left arm raised above his head, attached by handcuffs to the bedpost. The next shot was of the floor by the blown out window, and another body, propped against the wall, similarly cuffed to the radiator.

Only he heard John’s sharp intake of breath and fully understood the meaning. Anyone else would think it a natural response to a shocking series of images. Sherlock was practised in concealing his emotions as he clicked through the rest of the images impassively.

“Dull, boring, aren’t criminals so lacking in style and imagination nowadays?”

Peterson chuckled “Come on then, let’s hear it”.

Sherlock sighed, feigning nonchalance but bursting inside with the urge to see John’s eyes shine in open admiration. His audience, his conductor of light. The effect of the drugs had already faded, so this was all on him, his words, his mind. He took a deep breath.

“Obvious, from their positions, the bodies were staged, they were either heavily drugged or already dead by the time they were brought here, my money is on the former, although there was no attempt to disguise this, the perpetrator was advertising the murder, but seems confident that it wouldn’t be traced back to them”.

“Why do you say that?” Greg peered at the first image again, eyes flickering over the scene .

“Because you’re dealing with professionals”, Sherlock closed down the file and straightened up, “and I doubt they would be that sloppy, no, this is a message to someone, and a warning…I need access, there is only so much you can capture on screen”.

“No can do lads” Peterson shut the laptop with a snap and handed it over to Donovan. She looked daggers at him, the implication that an empty-handed Greg was somehow too valuable to undertake such menial tasks hung heavy in the air. She stalked off, heels clicking with aggravated intent.

Peterson turning to address them again “apologies Sherlock, but forensics would hand me my arse if I so much as let you through the front door, even I haven’t been in there yet, Anderson just patched these through half an hour ago…you know how it is” he shrugged apologetically and pulled a phone from his front jacket pocket, pressed a number on speed-dial and drew a circle with his finger in the air, a signal to Greg to wind up this little interlude.

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and pulled him off to the side ignoring Greg’s suspicious glances and bemused expression. Peterson just chuckled fondly and shook his head, used to Sherlock’s whirlwind mind and eccentricity, here one minute and gone the next, dashing off wasn’t even odd behaviour considering some of their previous encounters. Inside he was reeling, this was getting more and more fucked-up by the minute.

“Which one, the bed or the floor” he hissed urgently. It had started to rain and small droplets splattered John’s cheeks and caught in the soft waves of his hair. Sherlock saw no fear there, only grim determination.

“Floor…the tattoo, he was the one who stuck the knife in my back…wait…the other one, I recognised him too…the bloke from the alley, the one you kneed in the balls, Trent something or other, he was the one sent to look for you that night I got a kicking but you were….well, he didn’t find you”.

“Yes, both Doug Miller’s bully-boys, seems like him and Frank Hudson are indulging in a little tit- for- tat. But double murder, that’s a game changer. I’m going to need access to the toxicology reports, maybe I can trace it back to the origins of the drug that was administered. But there must be something else, something I’m missing…fuck why can’t I just think” he growled, clenching his jaw and ramming a fist into the side of his temple.

It was maddening. He sifted through the facts in his head. What had started as a way to impress John and help Mrs Hudson out had rapidly led to them becoming entangled in turf war between two dodgy drug-dealing club owners, and now two of the men who had threatened them turn up dead and he couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing.

How could he protect John when he didn’t know who he needed protecting from?

“I know that look Sherlock, what the hell is going on?”

Greg sidled up to them. The D.I was deep in conversation with one of the forensics team (not Anderson thank god) and Sally was flirting with one of the paramedics. No-one was paying any attention to them.

“John, you care to weigh in?, even if this stubborn sod thinks it’s okay to go all fucking vigilante on us…and don’t look like that Sherlock, I know you god help me, enough to know when you’re hiding something”.

John shot him a nervous glance and Sherlock raised his eyebrows in response.

He could work this out, he knew he could, but not at John’s expense, that was unacceptable. Before John he would have shot Greg down, not tell him a word and investigate himself regardless of the threat to his own personal safety, but now something far more important was at stake.

“Okay” he sighed, “We might have had a run-in recently, with both of the deceased….separately”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me Sherlock” Greg wiped a hand across his face, distorting his lips as it moved down to pull absently with the rough dark stubble on his chin. “Right, spill…why the hell would you be mixed up with these fucking low-lives. No” he pointed at Sherlock, “in your case I can guess, what did he sell you, was it the coke or the heroin, cause I know you’ve had both this week….I’ve seen it enough times so don’t you dare try and deny it”

“Keep your voice down for god’s sake” he hissed, eyeing the D.I nervously, “they are not my dealer’s, either of them. The one on the bed tried to push some at Newcross the night we played there but John got me out of it and we ran…the rest of it, after, doesn’t matter”.

(No need for Greg to know they broke into a house on Baker Street and christened the leather sofa with their bodily fluids)

He nodded at John who continued, stoic and calm, “The other loser jumped me last weekend on the way home…it was a warning to Sherlock to lay off digging shit up on his boss…we think he might have been involved in massive fight at some club. The owners wife…we were just trying to look out for her, neither of us knew it would turn into a shit-storm”.

“I see” Greg paused, dark eyes flickering between them both, “Nah, fuck it, actually I don’t see…why can’t you just stay out of trouble for one bloody minute Sherlock? You know I should report all this and pull you both in for questioning? This is a fucking murder investigation Sherlock and it sounds to me as though you’ve gone and pissed off our main suspect…so cheers for that…Mycroft’s going to chuck you in the salt mines for this little stunt…jesus… Right, here’s what’s going to happen, we never fucking had this conversation at least that’s the official line until I’ve had a chance to talk to Mycroft, and if you don’t agree to that I can’t promise anything and I can’t help if we find evidence to tie you to the investigation”.

Sherlock opened his mouth to launch an extremely rude and obnoxious protest, prevented from spewing forth by the touch of a small warm hand curled softly around his wrist. He promptly swallowed the tirade of abuse and shut his jaw with a faint click.

“Cheers Greg, we get it, but honestly it was just us two asking a few nosy questions that obviously struck a nerve with someone…sorry…it was stupid of us…we should have known better than to get involved” John was trying to shoulder the blame, well half of it at least, when nothing, none of it was his doing, it had all been down to him, Sherlock. John could lose his future career over this if he wasn’t careful.

“No” he heard his own voice form the words, dragged from his subconscious, “I’ll tell you anything you want, take me in, question me, just keep John out of it”.

Sherlock could see Sally approaching again from the corner of his eye, she was holding a pocket book in one hand and scrolling through a list of contacts on a mobile phone at the same time. “You still here freak?” she said, icily, before she turned her attention to Greg, “D.I wants us to follow up some possible witnesses, neighbours, a couple of delivery drivers, if you’ve finished babysitting this tosser that is…you could you know, come and do your real job?”

“You’re fucking rude do you know that?” John bristled beside him. This was nothing, Sherlock had been called far, far worse in his time.

“Leave it John” , now he was the one placating and calm, any sarcastic retorts died on his lips as the image of John, drugged and cuffed by some unknown assailant in a room thick with the stench of petrol, set to burn, sprang behind his eyes.

“Yeah well, she was being a bitch so I’m not sorry Sherlock”. John’s voice, the real John, solid and here spoke softly in his ear and brought him back to himself. “Look, why don’t we just go home?” John sagged a little and stifled a yawn.

Sherlock glanced at the display screen on his mobile, it was 2.45 a.m.

“ There’s nothing else to see here”, John continued, “you saw the crime scene photographs, although god knows how you pulled that one off, other than that D.I thinking the sun shines out of your arse”.

“Yes, stroke of luck on my part because I can assure he’s the only one”.

(It was the truth. For every Peterson there were a hundred Anderson’s)

“That I do believe” John laughed, slipping a hand into his as a final fuck you to Sally Donovan.

(John loves me, John adores me, freak that I am ) Sherlock needed to kiss him quite urgently.

“Go on then, bugger off the pair of you….I’ll speak to you later Sherlock” Greg added meaningfully. Sherlock had no desire to spend another fucking second in that place, having endured more than enough stupidity for one evening. (Including his own, admittedly).

As soon as they rounded the corner at the end of the street it was as if someone had muffled all sound, pressed a mute button on the rest of the world. All Sherlock could hear even with his chemically enhanced senses were their combined footsteps and John’s soft breath, quickening as he lengthened his stride to match Sherlock’s pace. They took a short-cut through a small area of parkland, nothing more than a children’s play area on a turfed-over brown field site passed over by developers. There was a green wooden bench in front of the swings, splattered with graffiti and bird droppings, an entire plank of wood missing from the back-rest. Sherlock stopped and sat down heavily, he patted the seat beside him indicating that John should do the same. It was still raining, just heavy enough to cover his coat and hair in a fine mist. The pooled rain on the bench seeped through the back of his jeans and made him shiver.

“I thought we were heading back?” John asked as he sat down beside him anyway. Sherlock pulled his coat around himself, aware of the creeping cold and damp, but no longer caring.

“We are, I thought we could have a spot of tea first though, I’m thirsty and it would be such a shame to let it go to waste, especially after you went to all that effort to look after me”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“Not a bit, I just couldn’t help thinking how your mouth would feel, all warm and sweet compared to your cold lips”.

Shit, that sounded a lot like really bad poetry. He was such a blithering idiot. But he really did mean it.

“You are taking the piss” John laughed, taking out the flask anyway and unscrewing the cap. He poured out the steaming liquid, almost orange like builder’s tea, the sort fit to stand your spoon up in (not literally). He handed it to Sherlock and he took a tentative sip, hot and wet, sliding down his throat like liquid gold settling warm and comforting in his stomach.

“This is terribly British” John said, “sitting on a park bench drinking hot beverages out of a flask, although not at three in the morning…that’s just weird” he moved a little closer, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, the warm weight of it anchored him.

The rain continued and they continued to ignore it.

John cleared his throat, nervously. “Erm Sherlock…I meant to ask ages ago…you see it’s my birthday in a couple of weeks and…”

“Yes” said Sherlock. Because he already knew that, the day on which John Watson had entered the world. It was circled on his metaphorical calender in the brightest of scarlets. With stars and hearts. Fuck, he was pathetic.

“What? Hang on I haven’t said anything yet”

“Whatever it is the answer is yes, but by your general nervous demeanour I would guess you want to take me home, and by that I mean your family home. You want to introduce me to your mother and sister?”

The last statement came out as more of a question, as Sherlock found it hard to believe anyone would be foolish enough to take him home to meet (and probably repel) their entire family. The odds against a successful trip were stacked high against them from the outset. But god, now the idea was in his head he felt almost giddy with it.

Please say yes, please John.

“Of course I want to you prat, but let’s not go in all guns blazing, I’m not exactly ‘out’ yet, not to mum and I’m pretty sure Harry hasn’t told her, you know, owing to the lack of hysterical phone calls. Anyway she’ll get much too big a kick out of watching me squirm when I do it myself so she can take the piss after. Shit, don’t get me wrong I’m fucking proud to call you my boyfriend, it’s just I’ll be basically telling her I’m a completely different person now”.

“It doesn’t matter John” said Sherlock, because it honestly didn’t. John came back, and that was all he needed to know about John’s feelings. “So will we be platonic friends who share a bed or will I be banished to the living room sofa on my own?”

“Spare room probably” John answered, taking the cup from Sherlock, he refilled it and handed it back, “just till I tell her, I don’t want to give her a fucking heart attack”

“Hmm…sneaking into each other’s room in the middle of the night, trying not to make the bed creak while I fuck you, letting you bite on my fist because you just can’t stop all the moaning and panting and the gorgeous noises you make when I make you come…I’m looking forward to it”.

“Jesus Sherlock, you arse…give a bloke some warning when in the vicinity of a burning hot cuppa”, John winced, as he slopped hot liquid on his jeans, “how long have you been storing that one in the wank- bank? – I’m almost scared to ask”.

“Long enough” Sherlock admitted. He had spent an inordinate amount of time lately when he should have been concentrating on more cerebral pursuits, devising increasingly filthy scenarios starring the two of them. It was as glorious as it was maddening. But shagging John in his childhood bedroom definitely made top ten.

“Not as long as the one where I fuck you with a dildo while I’m riding your cock though” he added with a grin, just to see what reaction his words would get.

“Fucking hell no…just _no_ … you mad bastard, that is so not happening while my sister is in the next room”

“Ah, but I didn’t detect a definitive no there, so you might be amenable on another occasion?”

Sherlock watched in amusement as John’s throat contracted, a “Nngh” sound squeaked out, then “ you are quite scarily upfront about kinky stuff… do you even have boundaries Sherlock?”

He shrugged, “Not really ( because he would admittedly try anything once)…If you think that’s kink John, you’ve led an extremely sheltered life, it’s positively vanilla in the grand scheme of things”

“Quite, and you would know _all_ about that Sherlock” came the sneering voice of Mycroft from behind him.

“Huh. I wondered how long it would take you to find us”, Sherlock huffed, not in the least surprised by his brother’s sudden appearance. He casually checked the time. “Fifteen minutes Mycroft, you’re slipping”.

“It would have been sooner brother dear, if it weren’t for this little piece of legwork”. Mycroft drawled, his usually rolled umbrella held poised above his head. The sudden lack of rain was annoying.

“God forbid you actually have to move out of your fucking chair, you are on a one-way ticket to type two diabetes Mycroft, I can smell the treacle tart from here”

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh. “Just get in the car Sherlock, this is all rather tiresome, and I’m sure the small quantity of Cocaine you imbibed must have worn off by now, so I should imagine you will soon be in need of a lie down”.

Sherlock just shrugged. He was damned if his was going to admit it out loud and add to his brother’s air of smug satisfaction. He crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively.

“How did I know Mr Watson?” Mycroft turned to address John instead, anticipating his question, “Elementary, I can assure you”. He directed his attention back to Sherlock, “When I arrived you were resting your left arm against your body, palm up, fingers curled inwards – and you forget Sherlock, Greg has observed you under the influence almost as much as I have, and however little you took it did not escape his notice…”

“Well you can tell him from me he can start looking for a new bass player” Sherlock spat childishly. The whole situation was intolerable, like living in a fucking goldfish bowl.

“You might want to reconsider that Sherlock, I have news which could be of benefit to you both in more ways than one”, he arched an eyebrow and inclined his head towards John.

Damn. Sherlock was intrigued despite himself, now he would have to listen to his insufferable brother a while longer when he would much rather have taken John back home to continue their very interesting discussion. John yawned widely beside him, a timely reminder that not everyone suffered from rampant insomnia.

“You look far too smug Mycroft, even for you, so whatever you are going to tell me amused you greatly, which suggests it is something most certainly not to my advantage”

“Perhaps one element was a little alarming in some respects but bravo brother dear, it is still completely in character”

“Do stop talking in riddles Mycroft” Sherlock spat as he pushed reluctantly to his feet. His legs were stiff with cold and the rain had begun to seep through his coat to his t-shirt below. He held out a hand to John, and clasped his frozen fingers tightly.

This was the first real contact John had had with his brother since the infamous dinner party (he had it on good authority that Sebastian Wilkes now spoke with a permanent whistle down his left nostril) when John had assaulted a guest to defend his (non-existent) honour.

Mycroft knew about the break-up last week, how could he not with Sherlock indisposed in a drug-induced stupor for most of the time, blissed-out and languid one day and exhaustingly energetic and manic the next depending on which substance he had chosen to abuse. But John’s sudden reappearance tonight had not even warranted the raising of an eyebrow which could only mean one thing, miraculously Mycroft approved.

~*~

 

The sleek black car was blessedly warm and dry, hot air blowing like a desert breeze. John sank into the black leather upholstery with a soft, contented sigh while Sherlock plopped down next to him, resentment oozing from every pore, as he squirmed around on the seat making a series of damp, squeaky, irritated noises. How dare his brother make him feel _grateful_.

The aforementioned three-piece suit and umbrella joined them as Mycroft folded himself in through the door and took the seat opposite, looking unruffled and waterproof, not a single drop clinging to his hair or coat.

John rubbed his hands vigorously through his short blond hair and a wild spray of droplets splattered the surfaces around him, some landed, to Sherlock’s satisfaction, on Mycroft’s impeccable, crisp-edged silk shirt leaving a dark stain on the light blue material. He snorted loudly at Mycroft’s expression of shocked incredulity before returning to gaze impassively out of the window, catching a cheeky wink from John in the reflection of the tinted glass.

Ha! It must stick in Mycroft’s throat, his failure to intimidate this small, miraculous person.

“If we are quite done with being insufferable children Sherlock, I have a matter of some importance to discuss” Mycroft spoke, glaring icily between both of them. John just relaxed, spreading his arms along the back of the seat and curling his fingers through the downy hair on the back of Sherlock’s neck, stroking gently.

“Firstly, an item was delivered to the house this morning, an unmarked plain brown envelope, no indication from whence it came or who the intended recipient was. I took the liberty of making some discreet enquiries on your behalf, but to no avail, the sender remains a mystery, although I dare to entertain my own suspicions” Mycroft said as he smoothed a hand down the crease of his trousers, a tell, to Sherlock at least, that he was quietly furious. Sherlock decided to ignore this deduction lest the fury should be thrown in his direction, choosing instead to relax into the caress of John’s teasing fingers.

God, why did this car have to drive so bloody slow? The roads were as clear as they could possibly be in the heart of London, the only delays from traffic lights turned red. The car slid to a halt again.

“On my behalf Mycroft?” he asked, half distracted by the warm sweet tingle chasing the last of the cold from his body. Heat pooled in his stomach and he bit it down, digging fingernails into his palm.

“Unfortunately brother dear, it seems you have been less than discreet in recent years and some enterprising individual captured one such moment for posterity. I am assuming there are more, a few grainy images would hardly be enough”

“Enough for what exactly?” he snapped, eyes locked on his brother’s impassive face.

Mycroft arched a brow as if to say ‘are you really so stupid?’, and smiled, a rictus grin. “To ruin your chances at Cambridge, to embarrass the family, threaten my position in government” this final reason was thickly laced with venom. Sherlock almost felt sorry for this unknown person, they obviously had no idea what Mycroft was capable of, splinter’s under the fingernails if they were lucky, or if Mycroft was feeling particularly generous some impromptu root canal work, minus the aneasthetic.

“I don’t mean to be thick” John interrupted “but what the fuck is going on? I’m guessing embarrassing photo’s but not the kind you would win two-hundred quid for on ‘You’ve Been Framed’?”

“How perceptive of you Mr Watson” Mycroft’s smile was false and obsequious, a cold hard stare and a slash of red for a mouth. He opened a leather briefcase on the seat beside him and handed Sherlock the A4 sized images held together with a gold-plated bull-clip which he roughly pulled off and tossed onto the seat next to Mycroft.

The first was a grainy blown-up shot of a much younger Sherlock, pre-Victor, therefore fifteen at most, propped up on the floor with his back against a saggy patchwork sofa with a definitely-not-a-cigarette clamped between his lips, just the bare dog-end left. He looked, in fact he had been, incredibly wasted. He remembered this occasion, a minor miracle when he considered how stoned he had been, it was the birthday party of a classmate, some double-barrelled trust- funded chinless wonder, the actual name unimportant. He grunted, unimpressed.

“Is this a joke Mycroft, you can’t seriously be bothered by this, half the student body took drugs that night, so what?” he passed the picture over to John who spared it a cursory glance before handing it back to Mycroft who slotted it carefully back into the envelope. The second image depicted a similarly underage Sherlock, stripped to the waist, and this time caught in the midst of performing a very enthusiastic blow-job. Images three, four and five depicted the same scene from slightly different angles and moments in time. Sherlock on his knees between spread thighs, lips stretched around a long stiff cock, the face of the other boy cropped out of the picture, then the other boy standing, fists curled in soft dark hair with Sherlock clinging to his thighs while he had his face fucked. The final two were of a similar bent, Sherlock lying on the floor with someone else’s hand inside his pants, obviously returning the favour by giving him a wank.

He felt John shift beside him as he leaned over for a closer look, the leather seat squeaking under his damp arse, he cleared his throat and Sherlock felt a lead weight fall into his stomach. He didn’t give a shit about the pictures, but cared deeply about John’s reaction to them.

“Good night was it?” John gave him a playful nudge, “I hope you know which twat took these pictures cause I’ll guarantee the sad bastard’s been wanking over them, why else would he keep these for two years”

“Eloquently put Mr Watson, a useful insight” Mycroft said as he snatched them back from Sherlock’s unresisting hand and locked them in the briefcase with a snap. “We will find the perpetrator Sherlock. At the present time the motive is unclear, but you do seem to have upset a number of people lately which makes the task of unmasking the guilty party rather more onerous. I have narrowed it down to a few key players and quite fortuitously there is a social event on the horizon which will present the ideal opportunity for further investigation – I do know how much you love a seedy little mystery to ponder, even though this time it is entirely of your own making Sherlock.”

“That’s hardly fair” John snapped, “This dickhead hardly said ‘smile please’ when he took these shots”

“You were high Sherlock” Mycroft sounded exasperated as he pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. The school were under a duty of care and mummy was on the board of govenors and yet you….you were taking drugs and indulging in underage sexual intercourse”.

“How many times do I have to tell you Mycroft…there _was_ no intercourse…” Sherlock was sick of this particular accusation having heard it many times before.

“Forgive me if I find that a little hard to swallow”

John exploded into laughter at his side, the real shoulder-shaking, tears running down the face kind, and Sherlock could hear the words before he even opened his mouth. Oh god, oh fuck John don’t don’t don’t….

“Well Sherlock obviously didn’t….find it hard to swallow that is…kudos on the deep-throat mate, you’re a bloody blow-job savant”

Oh fuck. Mycroft looked daggers as they both dissolved into fresh peels of laughter, ribs aching and stomach muscles pulling to an almost painful degree.

“This is no joke I can assure you”, Mycroft tutted, rolling his eyes in clear disapproval. Sherlock noted a hint of pink on his sallow cheeks, a sign of his embarrassment. My god, Mycroft was such an old-fashioned prude, could he really be only twenty-five?

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t fucking _consensual_ ” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his cuff , “I did it because I _wanted_ to, because I _liked_ sucking dick…is that really so difficult for you to comprehend?…no-one _forced_ me Mycroft”.

“And this obviously doesn’t shock you John?”

“Hardly…I’m no angel myself, I was messing around with girls at that age, you know a cheeky fumble, a handy…this isn’t really any different, except for the arsehole taking photograph’s of it”.

“You show remarkable tolerance regarding my brother’s behaviour, this blind loyalty as some might call it is most commendable, although I observe you had an altercation earlier this evening over Sherlock’s unfortunate lapse in fidelity”

“Is there a point to all this for god’s sake?” Sherlock had reached the limits of his patience with his brother’s sarcasm and sniping and he had no wish to raise the spectre of Victor Trevor again, not when they had so successfully buried it.

“….but not his lack of sobriety…interesting” Mycroft continued, to himself, hands steepled before his chin.

“Isn’t it just that Wilkes twat getting back at you for the broken nose? Shit sorry, I guess that was my fault” John said after he had finally brought himself under control, resting a wary hand over Sherlock’s own.

“No” Mycroft cut in, “that was obviously my initial thought, but the terms were clear, they were aware that I would end them if they pursued things any further”.

Sherlock had no doubts as to the truth of this statement, financial ruin and social annihilation would be the least of the Wilkes’s trouble would they even dare to cross Mycroft again.

“You mentioned some social event?” Sherlock prompted, resting his head against John’s shoulder and yawning deeply, bone tired now. The first muted grey light of a pre-dawn sky flickered by as the car crawled towards Westminster. Mycroft sat annoyingly alert and ram-rod straight, frowning at them.

“Yes, have you heard of the ‘Save Soho’ campaign? An admirable attempt to preserve the unique nature and individuality of a much loved area of London”

Sherlock shrugged too exhausted to express the extent of the fucks he could not give.

Mycroft continued to drone in his ear.

“Blah blah bloody buggering blah” Sherlock zoned out, Mycroft’s voice reduced to white noise, an irritating buzz in his ears.

“….managed to orchestrate that move whilst maintaining the good faith of Mr Trevor Senior…”

Wait. What? Sherlock was instantly alert.

“Oh for god’s sake please tell me this is not what I think it is”.

“As you wish Sherlock. You will do this for me, or does an extended period of study in France sound appealing?”

He dragged up the last few minutes of conversation from his subconscious. A benefit ball, organised by Trevor Senior, a fund-raising event to be attended by local dignitaries and businessmen, and in charge of PR and advertising by familial request – none other than Victor himself. Christ what a fuck-fest.

“You wouldn’t”

“Oh indeed I would”

“And what exactly is this ‘thing’ you want me to do?”

“Nothing too onerous, I can assure you, it is proposed that you will perform a short violin recital”

“How original”

“Quite”

What the hell was Mycroft trying to achieve, throwing them into each other’s paths again when the last time they had seen each other they had….they had?. Sherlock couldn’t even bring himself to think about it, wished the whole sorry incident would delete itself from his memory. And John, how was he supposed to feel about this?, it was so fucking unfair. Sherlock didn’t give a shit about a bunch of dirty pictures taken without his knowledge or consent, whoever it was could go ahead and do their worst. But Mycroft obviously had it in his head that it was someone from their inner circle, and possibly Victor himself which was patently ridiculous, and so he proposed to use Sherlock as bait to draw whoever it was, out.

“If I have to do this I’m taking John”

“You will be performing Sherlock, I am not entirely certain that those engaged to perform would be granted a plus one” .

Mycroft’s calculating gaze swept over John who stared back evenly, an open challenge to Mycroft to speak his mind and tell him what he really thought – that when it came to a society ball he just wasn’t good enough. The insufferable snob.

“He’s coming” Sherlock hissed, “even if he has to stand on the stage with me and play the fucking triangle”.

Mycroft paused, rubbing at a spot on his lower lip, a sure sign that he had reached the limits of his patience.

John cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly in his seat, moving forward into Mycroft’s personal domain in a subtle gesture of defiance.“I can pull a decent pint”, he said coolly, “and mix cocktails too, all the poncey shit that that type of idiot seem to go for. I’m assuming there’s a bar at this do, and I worked in a pub for a while in my last year of school…..just an idea…if being my boyfriends’ plus one is out of the question”.

Sherlock smirked triumphantly. John had backed Mycroft into a corner and the bell had just rung for the end of the round.

“Brilliant” John smiled broadly, squeezing Sherlock’s thigh in thank you.

“Oh god”, Mycroft sighed, taking out a tablet and tapping out a hurried e-mail, “I have a feeling I’m going to live to regret this, but fine…fine, I will make the necessary arrangements”.

~*~

 

Sherlock tugged in irritation at the neck of his shirt, jaw clenched tight as he dragged the hated tie away again, the skin beneath burning at the sudden flash of friction.

“Fuck it, I’m not wearing the damn thing it makes me feel like I’m choking and I can barely swallow around it”.

He threw it on the bed in disgust and popped open his top two buttons.

“Give it here, let me try” John padded over to his side still wrapped in a towel, fresh from the shower. His skin still glistened with a damp sheen, and the knot of soft cloth lay low on his hips revealing a downy golden trail. He caught up the strip of dark purple silk, bent at the waist over the bed.

It really was too tempting Sherlock thought, stepping up behind him and whipping the towel away as if that had been the plan all along.

“Much better” he hummed, “sliding his hands around John’s chest with a soft, contented growl nipping lightly at his earlobe, “You should always be naked, I should have Mycroft make it a law or something – John Watson shall never wear clothes on pain of death when in the presence of one Sherlock Holmes”

“And what would the penalty be if I broke that law?” John gasped softly, grinding back against Sherlock’s disappointingly clothed and rapidly hardening cock.

“I get to keep you as my sex slave, do anything I want, tease you until you’re _begging_ me to let you come”.

“Hmm” John hummed in approval, “as tempting as that sounds, and it does, believe me, we need to be ready in half an hour” he pulled away reluctantly, nipples dark and hard from where Sherlock had pinched them.

He stepped forward again, brandishing the hated tie and flipped Sherlock’s collar up, looped it around Sherlock neck and deftly twisted it into a perfect Windsor knot. He smiled in satisfaction and looked up to inspect his handiwork, as Sherlock reached down and stroked lazily up the length of his cock.

“Oh dear me John, hard again? You’re turning into quite the little slut”

“Speak for yourself” John said as he batted his hand away, wincing a little at the sudden loss of friction, “You are on a cock ban till after your performance, so hands off the goods”

“Spoilsport”

Sherlock pouted as he crossed over to his desk under the window and flipped open the catches of a battered black violin case. The instrument sat nestled in a bed of ebony velvet, the long slender neck secured by a black silken bow which Sherlock had attached himself, to protect the precious instrument from rattling around. He loosened the hair on the bow again and wondered if he should take a spare, then checked the side compartment for rosin and fussed over the clips of his chin rest. He closed the lid again and pressed gently on each catch with his thumbs until they clicked back into place. It was perfect.

“Nervous?” John called from across the room. He was dressed now, in smart black trousers and a plain white t-shirt which hugged every dip and curve of muscle. The neck-line dipped in the slightest of vee’s to reveal a tantalising ridge of collarbone. He looked unbearably gorgeous. Sherlock struggled to meet John’s eyes, distracted by the flash of creamy skin.

“Hmm, no I’m fine” he said looking up into deep blue eyes, “you see I’m quite looking forward to fucking a very sexy barman”.

“Yeah?” John smirked, as he spiked up his hair in his fingers looking in the mirror on the dresser to perfect an effortlessly tousled appearance, “I dunno, I could probably take my pick from all those posh gits in designer suits”.

Damn it, yes he could, Sherlock thought. It was endlessly fascinating that despite the jokes John had no real belief in the extent of his own attractiveness, Sherlock knew this as fact. He could assure John it was off the fucking scale, have a line of blokes all salivating for a piece of his arse and John would still be in denial. Good job he belonged to Sherlock then.

“Oh you think so, do you?....so you wouldn’t even want me when I’m wearing your favourite shirt?”

“Mmm, the purple shirt of sex…tempting”

“It’s Aubergine John”

“Whatever… keep talking and it’s not going to stay on long enough for me to care what fucking colour it is, or any of the rest of it either”.

Hmm, the ball was being held in The Regent Hotel, plenty of spare rooms and hidden places they could have sex in.

John crossed the room in three quick strides and cupped Sherlock’s jaw, yanking his head down to claim his mouth in a hard, possessive kiss, the other hand tangled in his hair pulling hard enough to make his eyes water. John stepped back again releasing him, breath heavy and panting, and Sherlock whined pathetically, actually fucking whined, and that was one of the least embarrassing noises John always seemed to pull from him. He was gone, a mess, totally besotted and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

“And Sherlock…Just so you know… I’m going to make sure that bastard knows exactly what he’s missing out on…I’ll take great pleasure in rubbing it right in his smug fucking face….the fact that he can’t have you” John added, voice rough with suppressed emotion.

_Hurt, anger, lust, love._

Sherlock would never admit to John that he was actually nervous. Not of the performance, that would be a breeze, but the rest of it, this, John in the same room as his ex, because if one thing was certain, as soon as Mycroft had confirmed his attendance Victor would have made it his business to be there. Victor didn’t have his new number thank god, not after Sherlock had launched the last phone into the depths of the river Thames effectively severing their last remaining connection, and John would be there too this time, but Victor could be so unbearably arrogant that he would view John’s presence as a challenge rather than a serious threat. If the two came face to face trouble would be almost inevitable.

And to add to his problems, just this morning Mycroft had summoned him to the study, tight-lipped and tense, on his desk another plain envelope, much smaller than the last containing a small silver flash drive.

“There was a note this time” Mycroft had stated, grim-faced, hands folded in front of him on the mahogany desk, (the same one Sherlock had fucked the P.A over) “This is just the beginning, tell your brother to be careful or he will find out what happens at the end of the story”

“That barely makes sense” he had scoffed even as the words burned inside his head, “have you looked at it yet…what is it, more pictures?”

Mycroft hadn’t answered, but he could tell by the set of his jaw that it was infinitely worse, but then his brother had dismissed him with a flick of the wrist to answer an urgent call from his office, and Sherlock still hadn’t any idea of the contents….

He shrugged on his jacket and coat, wound his favourite blue scarf around his neck and picked up his violin case by the soft leather handle, indented with the shape of his fingers, the weight of it reassuring in his hand. John waited by the door expectantly, with a smile that was only for him. Sherlock sighed, and prayed to a deity he didn’t believe in to please not let him fuck it up this time.

It was time to go.

~*~

 

John leant against the bar and tried to look attentive, a difficult task when his whole body was on alert for the inevitable appearance of Victor Trevor. And besides, he really didn’t need the induction course, knowing his way around the various pumps and optics well enough.

Sherlock had left him as soon as they stepped through the door, swept away by one of the organiser’s to a lounge area reserved for ‘the entertainment’ while John was ushered directly to the ballroom and left under the supervision of the head barman.

He nodded and hummed in the right places, just enough to convince the man in front of him that he was listening and not actually scoping every suit that entered the room, his stomach tied in a thick knot of jealousy. He was so far out of his depth here, amongst the Armani and Westwood and Paul Smith, amongst the trust-fund kids and old money, and the women dripping in jewellery expensive enough to pay off the average mortgage.

It was insane. And Sherlock _belonged_ here. (Once you took away the scruffy old band-shirts, wild hair and sprayed-on skinny jeans).

If only he had had time to mark Sherlock up a bit, then Victor twat-face Trevor would know he was strictly off-limits.

 “Since you seem to know it all kid, John is it? You can start by buffing up the crystal out back” said the barman, a short stocky bloke with a short crop of salt and pepper hair and a nose that must have gone a few rounds inside a boxing ring. John looked up guiltily, his attempt to hide his disinterest had not gone unnoticed then. “It’s Sol by the way” the man said, as he tossed a red-checked tea towel at him. John caught it one handed and followed him into the back-room area. He surveyed the so-called crystal, which was, in reality and endless stack of half and full pint glasses, tumblers and champagne flutes fresh from the industrial dish-washer.

“Check for watermarks and lipstick, because even this badboy can’t shift all the bloody make-up” he patted the huge chrome machine fondly as John picked up the first glass and held it up to the light. “No need to be too fussy” Sol winked, “Most of the guests will be plastered before we even have to worry about them”.

“How come?” John asked, purely for conversations sake, he wasn’t actually interested in the answer.

“Two bottles of Moet per table mate, split between eight people, not enough to get legless but sufficient that they won’t care too much – oh, and any tips you get tonight are yours to keep, but there’s a jar on the side for the tight bastards that give you loads of useless shrapnel, that gets divided at the end of the night, okay?” Sol let his eyes flick over John for a second, an admiring appraisal, “not that you’ll have much to worry about, those rich bitches’ll be lining up to stick a tenner in your pocket lad”

Shit, that was all he needed, fending of the advances of a load of posh birds who thought he was straight and there for the taking, happy to be seduced. He decided to set Sol straight.

“Well actually, I don’t think my boyfriend would be very happy about that”

“What ev’s kid, but you’ll be missing out on a shit-load of cash – and one last thing guys”, he beckoned to the other staff, “anyone offers you a drink, you accept – I don’t want any offended patrons, but try to stick to soft drinks if possible, anyone gets pissed they’ll be sacked on the spot, you got me?”

They all nodded and murmured. Sherlock would have to get his pretty little arse over here as soon as possible to scare them all off. The thought made him laugh to himself when he finally wandered back out to the bar.

The room was filling up rapidly as people took their places at the large circular tables, each decorated with fine ivory linen, gleaming crystal glasses and brightly polished silverware, the flowers in the centre alone would have cost more than John’s entire student loan for an entire year. He shook his head at the madness of it all, a charity event that had probably wasted thousands already on the venue and decorations. The logic or lack thereof, baffled him, but he guessed this was just how the other half lived, Sherlock’s half.

~*~

 

Sherlock had been given a small private room in which to practice before the performance. He didn’t need it of course, he never did, the melodies were already laid out in delicate swirls and patterns in his head.

What he did need however, was a fucking cigarette.

The rosin compartment in his violin case held an illicit supply, placed there when John had been busy in the shower. He retrieved them now, a slim white and gold packet of Marlboro lights, a compromise of sorts, in exchange for a week of enforced sobriety. They both tried to ignore the fact that he was merely exchanging one addiction for another, just for the time being though, because John’s next evil plan involved nicotine patches.

“What next?” he had pouted, “A life of abject boredom?”

“How about more sex?” John had answered with a smirk, as he dropped to his knees on the carpet and unzipped Sherlock’s jeans, and unsurprisingly, he had nothing more to add after that other than “ _Ah…god yes John…ungh_ ” before he came explosively down his throat.

Going outside was too much of a chore, so Sherlock crossed to the window and undid the sash. He pushed it up half way and then perched on the sill with his arm stuck out to carry the smoke away on the cool night air. He took a long drag, holding the heat and chemicals in his lungs before slowly blowing out.

The door opened, the creak of an unoiled hinge cutting through the silence. He didn’t look round, it was obvious who it would be, so he closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the window frame, the burning fag dangled loosely from his fingertips.

“Fuck off Victor”

“Is it necessary to be so crass Sherlock?...I only came to wish you good luck”

“Then why did you just sneak in, why not knock?” he drawled, stretching his long slim legs out along the sill in front of him, eyes still shut.

“I thought we were beyond such formalities Sherlock”

He opened his eyes slowly, and turned his head. Victor stood with his back to the closed door, an air of nervous apprehension surrounded him, belying his suave appearance. He looked as good as always in a navy-blue Vivien Westwood suit, Sherlock saw no point in denying his physical attributes - and they would make a striking couple, no doubt about that, but it would be an empty, soulless union.

Sherlock didn’t love Victor, he loved John. The man before him had been an adolescent obsession, the ‘relationship’ such as it was, toxic and destructive, where Victor had indulged his own base desires with a naïve and precocious child.

He wasn’t a child anymore.

He swung his legs round off the sill, and flicked his cigarette out of the window onto the ground below, standing, he stalked across the room and slammed his hands against the door, palms flat, braced at either side of Victor’s skull.

“Let me make myself clear” he said, in a low, dangerous voice, the position of dominance gave full advantage to his extra height, “I do not need your _luck_ , or your _best wishes_ or any other _false platitudes_ you might wish to bestow”

Victor met his gaze with an intensity of his own. “Did you forget Sherlock…that you were the one that came to me? That you were the one that almost battered down my door at three in the morning…practically threw yourself at me?”

“That. Was. A. Mistake.” He retorted icily, as he lifted his hands away and rocked back on his heels, stepping away to sit on the edge of the bed, putting a little more space between them, “One I can assure you I have no intention of repeating ever again”.

Victor sighed, fingers clasped round the door handle, poised, “However much you might wish it Sherlock, people don’t just stop caring…stop loving someone…just because the other person wants them to….it might do for you to remember that”, he added, sadly as he slipped out again.

The door clicked shut.

Only the faint scent of expensive cologne remained to show he had ever been there.

~*~

 

“Dear me Mr Trevor, have you yet to overcome your unhealthy obsession with my brother?” Mycroft Holmes stepped, seemingly out of nowhere directly into Victor’s path. In truth he had been waiting for him, had observed his furtive glances at the end of the guest corridor where Sherlock’s room was situated, making sure the way was clear before he crept down. He had watched him open the door and slip inside without knocking and waited with patience until he had emerged ten minutes later, after Victor had been (blessedly) rejected.

They were just outside the ballroom in a large circular vestibule, as guests milled around them clutching complementary flutes of champagne and nibbling politely on intricately presented hors d’oeuvre’s on silver trays. Mycroft stood in front of him, his fury perfectly concealed by an outward appearance of innocuous benevolence. He allowed himself a moment to savour the look of guilt and anguish that crossed Victor’s face even as he squared his shoulder’s defiantly.

He was brave, Mycroft could credit him that, even if it was by far the kindest word for stupidity.

“Mycroft” Victor faltered slightly before he gathered himself again, “…I didn’t expect to see you here…. my father would wish me to extend to you his sincere gratitude for your help in arranging this evening”, he bowed his head politely. They must appear to the onlooker, thought Mycroft with amusement, as two Regency gentlemen here to discuss the honour of some blushing maid.

“Not at all Victor, we are old family friends are we not?” Mycroft smiled, calculating and predatory, “And would that account for your presence in Sherlock’s room?....you wishing to offer your…. _thanks_? He allowed the implied meaning to hang in the air as he revelled in Victor’s obvious discomfort. The man had laid hands on his brother after all and he had no desire to be lenient.

“You cannot deny where you have been, I can smell his cigarette smoke on your clothes, Marlboro light, smoked in front of an open window”.

Victor cleared his throat, he was clearly unsettled, perhaps thinking that Mycroft had had the room under visual surveillance.

“I know what you think Mycroft…what you believe happened between us, but I am sure Sherlock has told you the same…we did nothing wrong”.

Would he still try to deny the existence of a sexual liaison? Mycroft pursed his lips in disgust.

“Sherlock told me nothing”, he admitted, “My brother can be irritatingly loyal…but what I believe Mr Trevor is not the point any more, let me tell you what I now know”.

“Oh, and what exactly is it that you know Mycroft? Victor raised his voice slightly, as his increasing frustration at the persistent attack began to manifest physically.

Mycroft was not considered an adept at interrogation for nothing. “That you certainly weren’t downstairs with the rest of the guests when the clock struck twelve, New Year’s Eve, two years ago, and neither so it would appear, was Sherlock…and that you have garnered a certain reputation for yourself amongst your previous sexual partners for….how shall I put this… _unusual practices_ ”.

He would spare them both the details here, needless to say there were a variety of interesting implements involved in the proceedings.

“Make of it what you will…my private affairs are none of your fucking business…and besides, you haven’t a single shred evidence”

“Circumstantial only, I’ll admit, but rather telling all the same don’t you think? Especially considering you have just failed to deny it...A predilection for underage boys Victor…Sherlock was fifteen years old…and membership of no less than three well-known London sex-clubs…any sane employer would drop you like a hot stone…you might want to bear that in mind…a word in the right ear and you might find yourself suddenly…unemployed”.

He took pleasure in watching the blood drain away until a pale and stuttering wreck was left. Did he really think he could win?, that they were equals?, the mere notion was laughable.

Gregory would say that was enough now, to reign it in somewhat, but self- restraint had never been Mycroft’s strong point.

“I did as you wanted, I spent a year in America for god’s sake, left my home and family…what more can you want?” Victor whined pathetically, didn’t he know pleading wouldn’t help? “He came back to _me_ Mycroft, turned up in the middle of the night on my doorstep, not the other way round”

Mycroft noted with satisfaction, the sheen of nervous sweat along his hairline which collected into a bead at his temple before rolling gently down.

“I am aware of that…a mere lapse in judgement on his part, regrettable certainly, but understandable once one is aware of the extenuating circumstances” He shifted into a wide-legged stance, leaning on the tip of his umbrella for balance, “Leave him alone, that is what I want…whatever you did to him almost destroyed him and I will not see my brother come to harm”

“Oh I really don’t think he needs my help to destroy himself, he seems to manage that quite well on his own”.

Victor made to step by. Mycroft stuck out the end of the ubiquitous umbrella to block his path.

“Let him go Victor…whatever you were to him once upon a time…he doesn’t need you anymore”, he turned away, feeling there was nothing further to gain from this exchange, the foe was vanquished and his point made.

“Fucking wanker”

Perhaps not.

He turned, with mechanical precision, brow arched.

“As you know Mr Trevor, I am not a man given over to compassion…so let me make it clear this time, _I will end you_ if you refuse to back off…..as my brother is so fond of saying” he said, swinging his umbrella jauntily, “The Game Is On”.

~*~

 

Fucking Mycroft Holmes. He had expected something like this, from the moment his father had called him to his study to finalise the details of the charity dinner. There was only one reason that Victor knew of, as to why the elder Holmes would mysteriously offer his services.

Sherlock.

Christ, he had looked incredible tonight, looked more beautiful every time he saw him. His slim, lithe body clad in a vintage suit, his skin so pale it was almost translucent, and those damn cigarettes, trust Sherlock to make something that should be disgusting look so fucking sexy. It tore another small piece of his heart away every time he saw him.

He ducked into the darkened ballroom, badly in need of a whiskey to calm his racing heart.

Damn it, the man was fucking terrifying, circling around you like a bloody shark, mouth full of hidden razor sharp teeth waiting to rip you in half at the first scent of blood.

The bar was blessedly quiet, everyone seated at tables politely clapping and chatting quietly amongst themselves while they waited for the next act. He sat down on a leather-topped bar stool and scrubbed a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

“Double whiskey, no ice or water”

“Rough night?” said a blond kid, pushing a glass up under the optic twice before sliding the tumbler of amber liquid to him across the bar.

“Something like that” he said, almost draining it all on the first sip. He swallowed the mouthful with a grimace and waved the glass for a refill. Another large mouthful and he almost drained the second one too.

The chatter in the room subsided, reduced to a low hum as the next act took the stage, a tall thin figure illuminated in the glow of the spotlight.

Fuck. He was never going to escape from this self-imposed hell was he?

The first sweet strains rang out, teased from the instrument by the sweeping bow held against the strings at just the right pressure, effortlessly coaxing the melody into existence, enhanced with a tremulous vibrato, low and soft at first transitioning seamlessly into galloping energetic trills and runs. Victor tore his gaze away with reluctance, unsurprised at how much it hurt, he drained the glass again and looked up to find the barman staring at the boy on the stage, rapt.

“Quite something isn’t he?”

“Yeah, definitely” the boy replied softly.

“Do you know him? I know him…had him once in fact…had the pleasure of popping the cherry as they say…ripe for the taking…fucking gorgeous” he was babbling slightly, a glass of champagne earlier and two double whiskey’s severing the connection between brain and tongue.

“What did you just say?” the boy said with a hiss, now giving Victor his full attention, “Jesus Christ, you’re him aren’t you, bloody Victor Trevor?”

“So what if I am? And who the hell do you think you are anyway, you cheeky little bastard?, my father owns this hotel, I can have you sacked you know…in fact I think I will”, he moved to get up but slumped back down again, legs turned to lead by a too- quick intake of alcohol.

“Me? I’m no-one special mate, and I couldn’t give a fuck if you sack me so go ahead, I’m only here to support my boyfriend”

“Boyfriend huh?”, Victor looked him up and down more closely – short blond hair, small, well-muscled, nice arse and thighs, nothing overtly homosexual, lovely – he would do that given half a chance…he was a lucky bloke whoever he was.

“Yeah. Boyfriend”. The boy leaned in close, sweet breath ghosting over the side of his face, soft lips pink and moist…very pretty indeed. “I think you might know him mate…his name’s Sherlock”.

A cold, lead weight settled in his stomach. Shit. Fuck. Why didn’t he see it before? The blond kid from Baker Street snogging Sherlock before he got into a taxi, the one he had been mooning over when he’d crashed into Victor’s flat, high, the reason why Sherlock refused to stay that night, therefore the reason they hadn’t made love.

The Boyfriend.

John Watson.

John.

~*~

 

“So”, John said as he glared at the half-drunk man before him, swaying and gripping the edge of the bar to maintain his balance, “you’re the wanker who’s been chasing after my boyfriend?”

He took in his appearance at a glance, designer suit, expensive haircut, Brietling framing a manicured hand, good-looking? Yeah, he would give him that, but with that distinctive whiff of the English Public Schoolboy, all mouth and no trousers. (John had no doubt who would come out on top if it came to a fight). But he couldn’t control the uncomfortable spike of jealousy that this man had slept with Sherlock, and not only that, to be his first, someone special.

“Is that what he told you?” Victor slurred, “Because I didn’t exactly have to chase very hard when he had his fucking tongue down my throat and his hand around my prick…we only stopped cause he was high as a kite”.

John took a deep breath in through his nose, the last thing he needed to do was lose it, let his temper get the better of him and punch this arrogant fucker in the mouth. His clenched fists itched at his sides.

He was vaguely aware that the music had stopped and that Sherlock had left the stage, the murmur of voices filled the room again and the scraping of chairs on polished wood signalled a busier time at the bar.

Sherlock had warned him more than once in the last few days that this would be inevitable at some point, that if their paths didn’t cross by chance then Victor’s own curiosity would cause him to seek John out and posture, like two stags in a rut competing over the territory that was Sherlock.

It was ridiculous, Sherlock wasn’t some prize and this wasn’t a game, he was more like a bloody war zone – lob in a grenade then duck and cover, wait for the fucking fallout.

“That says it all really…that he couldn’t do it sober” he said coolly, forcing himself to turn away and lean over the bar to catch the order of the next customer as the rising cacophony of voices made it harder to hear. He deftly flicked the cap off a Bulmer’s and passed it over, an upturned glass balanced over the open neck.

“Can’t blame a bloke for trying John”, Victor slid off the stool and followed him across the bar, “Wouldn’t you fight for him if you were in my position? I mean Christ…look at him…he’s…fuck…he’s…”

“Not yours” (And not mine either, he added to himself. Not in that sense anyway, like he was a piece of property that they were declaring ownership over) “And he’s going home with me tonight”

“I love him you know, just in case you were wondering…but don’t worry he’s never said it back, not to me…I don’t think he knows how to love…just takes what he wants and fuck the consequences”

“That’s where you’re wrong, he has said it, to me…more than once, so no offence mate, maybe he just wasn’t that into you?"

Arrogant tosser, just because he had money and connections he obviously thought Sherlock should be head over heels for him, and like a spoilt little brat he was sulking over the one thing he couldn’t have.

“Don’t give him your heart John, he’ll cut it open sooner or later, like one of his fucking experiments, just to see how you tick and then you’ll be left to pick up the pieces while he moves on…because once he finds out how the puzzle works he gets _bored_ ”

John paused, just about to deliver an unequivocal ‘fuck off’. That week when he thought they were finished, when even breathing proved difficult, and not from the bruising on his legs and ribs, but from the realisation that he might never get to hold him again, that had damn near killed him. And this poor bastard had pined for almost two years. Maybe they weren’t so different after all.

But then again, for someone who hadn’t seen Sherlock for two years he knew a hell of a lot about the way he led his life. Was it obsession or something else? It was worth bearing in mind.

Someone tapped on his arm, soft but insistent.

“A gin and tonic John dear if you don’t mind, make it a large”.

“Mrs Hudson…what are you doing here?”, he blurted, before he could register that that was quite rude.

“Ooh I know dear, doesn’t seem quite my thing, Frank insisted we come, said that he would be able to support first- hand a cause very close to his heart, his club being in that part of London and all that. We couldn’t get tickets the last time…too expensive” she whispered that last while giving the side-eye to woman standing next to her in a fox-fur stole.

“I saw your young man just now…looking very handsome”

“Ha…yes…yes he was” he felt his cheeks go crimson with embarrassment. Mrs Hudson was just like someone’s Nan to an onlooker, but John felt sure she had lived the sort of life where absolutely nothing shocked her, so two teenage boys having sex wouldn’t even have raised an eyebrow. He felt a swell of fondness – they should go back and see her at Baker Street, him and Sherlock.

She beckoned him closer, so he leaned in again on the pretence of taking another order. Sol had already been eyeing him for spending too long talking to Victor. John glanced over at the figure, still slumped dejectedly, nursing the final dregs in his glass of whiskey.

“That young man that you were chatting to” she whispered, thumbing in the direction of Victor, “was having a bit of a to-do in the foyer earlier, with a very dapper gentleman with the oddest eyes…quite put me in mind of your young man, you know, how he doesn’t just look at you, he looks into you?” She shivered slightly, a faint tremble of bird-like shoulder’s clad in dark-blue velvet. “Do you know each other well dear, because I couldn’t help overhearing them talking about Sherlock.” she didn’t elaborate, but John knew with certainty the man had been Mycroft.

“They had a thing once” was the only reply he could think of.

“Oh…I can’t quite imagine that myself dear, call me old-fashioned but he’s a fly-by night if ever I saw one, shifty looking like he’s hiding something, and young Sherlock needs a firmer hand, someone to pull him back down to earth when he disappears off into that funny old head of his” she smiled fondly “Do tell him I said hello John love…and as I said last time…don’t be strangers” she squeezed his hand before she tottered off, the large G&T clutched in her hand.

John felt it before he saw him, a prickling of the skin like the pins and needles that erupt after a day in the cold as your body thaws. He looked up, and there he was, striding across the ballroom with poise and confidence, suit jacket slung over one arm and the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

“Thank god that’s over, it’s fucking awful being expected to perform like a trained chimp for a bunch of bloody philistines. I could have played the theme to Captain Pugwash and they still would’ve clapped like seals…idiots” Sherlock rolled his eyes at him as he shimmied his way through the press of bodies at the bar, expertly insinuating himself to the front, directly before John.

“Shut up, you were amazing, and you know you were…I swear to god Sherlock Holmes, sometimes I think you’re just fishing for compliments” he smiled. The air between them was so thick with sexual tension it was palpable, only a vague sense of propriety holding John back from just dragging Sherlock forward and pushing his tongue into that mouth. Sometimes it was the only way to shut him up, that and other more scandalous methods.

“Only because you’re so good at giving them John, and in every variant known to the English language, however, I was thinking about engaging in something a bit more…. _non_ - _verbal”._

Sherlock looked up through his lashes in a hilarious attempt to affect innocence, teeth clasped delicately over his bottom lip.

“Stop it you arse, are you trying to give me a hard-on while I’m stuck behind this bloody bar?”

John glanced around nervously, sure that anyone who cared to pay attention would see how horny he was. Victor he was pleased to note, had gone, probably off somewhere licking his wounds and feeling sorry for himself. Sherlock hadn’t even seen him.

“Is it working?” Sherlock asked curiously, lifting himself up to peek over the polished wooden surface to where John stood, tea-towel strategically draped from the belt loop on his trousers. “Nice try, but you can still see it from the side”.

John gave a jolt as a large meaty hand clapped him on the shoulder from behind as Sherlock slid down off the bar again looking not in the slightest bit sorry.

“You can get off now John” said Sol, with not a single trace of irony in his voice. John scowled at Sherlock, practically convulsing with supressed laughter as he looked on. “And take your friend with you, I don’t care whose brother he is, this is my bar and he’s underage you got me?” John hummed his agreement as he stepped to corner of the bar and lifted up the hinged flap at the side to make a rather hasty exit.

“Are we going to _get off_ now?” Sherlock smirked appearing magically at his elbow, sliding a hand around his waist and dipping down below the waistband of his trousers to stroke his fingers along the globe of his arse. It did nothing to ease the burgeoning erection pressing ever more insistently at the front.

“Well I am” he teased, knowing that exerting a little authority was for Sherlock, a massive turn-on. “Not so sure about you though…you’re going to have to work for it…show me how good you can be for me” the soft little gasp that came from Sherlock’s mouth sent shockwaves of electric heat to his cock, but he only had himself to blame this time.

“I saw him you know” he whispered, as he wound a hand around Sherlock’s other wrist and squeezed just a little too tight, half walking, half dragging him along. “I spoke to him and he told me…what you did to him, how you touched him” he pitched his voice lower, a rumbling purr in Sherlock’s ear. Heat rose to his cheeks and he stole a glance, Sherlock, wide-eyed and almost trance like by his side, chest moving in and out at a rapid pace.

They would have to be careful, it was still a public place.

“Not so cocky now are you?” he continued, knowing full well the effect his words were having on both of them, a dangerous game they both had become frighteningly good at playing of late. “Do you like to touch Sherlock? Did you enjoy it…sliding those beautiful hands up and down someone else’s prick? Did he scream?…. did he moan Sherlock?….when he shot his load all over your pretty fingers?”

“John…I…”

“Just yes or no….answer me Sherlock…and don’t lie, I’ll know if you do”

“Ha…ah…yes John” Sherlock stuttered, sucking in a shuddering breath.

They were out of the ballroom now and John eased back a little, not wanting to draw attention to their undue closeness, which proved quite a challenge as John was practically supporting him, to stop his bambi- legs from folding.

Fuck, Sherlock was gone already, had he said too much, taken it too far?

“Get me to that room before I fucking come in my pants” Sherlock hissed through his teeth, jaw clenched in pained concentration, “John Watson you are an utter, utter bastard”.

Ha, apparently not.

~*~

 

How the hell did he do it? A few whispered words in his ear had reduced him to a quivering, needy wreck. No-one had ever, ever affected him like this before, turned him on so much with a few well chosen, filthy words knowing exactly which buttons to push. It was instinctive, incredible, that he could hone in, in a heartbeat on every single one of Sherlock’s weak spots. He would be terrified if it wasn’t so fucking hot.

So Victor had spilled his guts in the hope that John would be consumed by jealousy and anger and dump him. And then what? Did he think that Sherlock would thank him - then crawl back into his bed and spread his legs for him?

He allowed John to lead him through the foyer, past faces some curious, some indifferent, down a corridor to the right which led to his allocated guest room. John’s hand slipped into his pocket, drawing out the key-card and swiping through the door-lock with a click.

(So that was how Victor got into his room, this was his father’s hotel so easy access to a master-card).

They slipped inside, where dim light and shadows concealed his feverish skin and trembling limbs.

“John…” it was barely a whisper, just an exhalation of a name on his breath, answered with a possessive growl and strong arms that spun him around and pushed him backwards to the bed. They fell together, a tangle of arms and legs, grasping hands and hot, wet, desperate kisses. He grabbed John’s arse to pull them roughly against each other, and felt the humid heat of his erection pressed into the crease of his pelvis. Oh god, that was his, all for him, he could have that, any way he wanted, in his hand, his mouth, his arse. He groaned, lips already chafed and swollen from John’s probing tongue and the faint rasp of stubble on tender skin.

“Are you done now? Did you get him out of your system?” John rasped, biting and nipping along his jawline, “For your sake I fucking hope so”.

Sherlock arched his back in silent compliance, hands skimming frantically up and down John’s body, not knowing where to rest, where to hold, where to feel next. This was everything, John had to see that, feel it in every sigh and moan that he ripped from his throat, the heat and the sweat and the dizzying pleasure, every single inch of him aflame, burning.

“Get these off Sherlock….Christ… _now”_.

Two pairs of hands fumbled desperately at buttons and belts and zips, clothes discarded carelessly. It was messy and clumsy, neither wanting to break away, tongues licking at each new area of bare skin. Sherlock revelled in the taste of salt on his tongue as he traced along John’s neck, while pushing hands finally rid them of the hated confining clothes. He kicked his trousers onto the floor impatiently, reaching down to drag his boxers off his ankle relieved to be naked at last. They lay, pressed together head to toe sweat-slicked and panting, frozen.

Sherlock broke the silence, staring deep into John’s eyes, the dark-blue turned to black with desperation, barely held in check. He whispered darkly. “I see you…. see it in you….how much you want to _own_ me…not so sweet are you, the way you want me like this, helpless underneath you” he trailed his fingers down the length of John’s spine feeling him shiver, then slowly, slowly scratched his way back up, just a little too deeply, a little too hard. John gave a jerk, unsure if he should flinch away or stay, trying to process what Sherlock was doing.

“You’re playing with fire Sherlock”, he growled, turning Sherlock’s head to the side and sucking a painful bruise onto the delicate skin above his collarbone. Closer, he needed to be closer than this. Sherlock lifted his legs up and wrapped them firmly around John’s waist, crossed at the ankle for leverage, he thrust up hard and whimpered at the crush of their erections. John was so hard and wet, how the hell could he stand this?

“Move John _please”_ he gasped as he writhed, desperate for friction that he couldn’t find. He didn’t care anymore, sod dignity, he just wanted a cock in his arse and a good solid fucking.

 “Damn it you bastard” he squirmed as John gazed down at him, amused, “What do you want, for me to beg you?”

“Where is it Sherlock?”

“What?”

He narrowed his eyes, momentarily confused, then oh god yes, you bloody brilliant genius John.

“You know what”

“Over there” he inclined his head to a small floral tub chair sitting squat in the corner of the room. There, draped over the back, discarded straight after his performance was a long strip of dark-purple silk. The pit of his stomach lurched and tightened at the thought, he knew exactly what John had in store.

The grounding weight of John’s body left him, cold and oddly weightless if only for a matter of seconds. And then he was back, pressing soft, tender kisses to his face and brow. He straddled Sherlock’s hips and leant over him, gathering up both Sherlock’s wrists in his hands.

“Oh god, is this okay? Please tell me if it’s too tight”

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure if he was capable of speech right now as the soft, cool material twined slowly around his wrists, every turn made his body throb and twitch on a swelling tide of arousal. This was the best idea ever. John tied a loose knot, just enough to stop it coming undone.

“Turn over for me Sherlock” he whispered softly, coaxing him over onto his front. At this point, in this trance-like state, John could have asked him to do anything and he would have.

He lay on his stomach, cock pressed against the cool, cotton covers and laid his head on a voluminous pillow. Arms up, the two loose ends of the tie looped and fastened around the old-fashioned posts of the bedstead. Mmm it felt like heaven, just floating, cast adrift, he thought, as soft chaste kisses tickled up the length of his spine, and rough calloused thumbs traced circles in the dip of the Venusian dimples, then rougher, more insistent, a hot moist tongue licking down again as every nerve ending sprang to life. He squeezed his eyes shut, as bright bursts of colour exploded behind his lids.

“Shit” he felt the bed dip again as John scooted over to rifle through his trouser pockets. Lube, of course. They had left it unspoken between them when they set off tonight, as to whether they would fuck each other here or wait until they got home.

Something to thank Victor for at last, pure jealously and possessiveness had ramped John’s libido up to eleven.

He twitched reflexively at the first cool slick touch as John’s index finger trailed along the crack of his arse. He shuffled forward, straining to lift his body up and get his knees underneath him. Joh held him down with a warm firm hand.

“I can take you like this” he breathed, circling around the tight puckered skin of his entrance, it was teasing and slow, so fucking maddening, and not enough.

“John” he whined, voice muffled by a mouthful of pillow. He wriggled his arse against the pressure wanting his body to be breached and taken so damn much that he wailed in relief when John finally took pity and penetrated him. One finger at first, the slow deliberate drag against a smooth, tight wall of muscle pumped in and out, then extra lubricant and another finger pushed in, twisting slightly to find the spot that would make him convulsive and shake, heat rolling off him in waves.

He tried to move, to fuck himself on John’s hand in delirious abandonment, his cock hot and aching now, dribbling in anticipation. He tried to rut against the covers to create some friction, yelping in surprise when he was rewarded with a stinging slap on the arse. John puffed a cool breath over the stinging patch of skin, instantly soothing.

“Behave yourself Sherlock” John chuckled, winding a hand under his abdomen to help him to his knees and guide his thighs apart. He felt so exposed and at John’s mercy with his wrists bound and his arse in the air, spread wide and waiting to be filled. His loosened hole twitched and fluttered at the thought, a slick trail of lube dripping down his balls and sliding down his inner thigh.

He must look like such a filthy slut, all wet and panting and desperate.

“ _John please_ ….oh god John” he moaned, his last shred of dignity gone.

He wanted this so much, loved it, being fucked and filled and taken, back arched in ecstasy as John finally pressed inside him, curled over his body. He sucked in a breath at the sting of the stretch, John’s size momentarily overwhelming as it opened his body wide. He rocked back into the motion, no longer in control of himself (if he ever had been) taking every extra inch as it slowly slid inside.

“Is this my punishment?” he asked, jokingly, thrumming with anticipation as he waited for it all to really begin. Whatever the reason for this delicious twist he was more than happy to go along with it. This should be interesting, no hands, no control, John would take charge of everything, would dictate how and when Sherlock would come.

“Only cause you love it like this you dirty bastard” John grunted in reply, as he grabbed his hip tighter to set up a pounding rhythm, so different from his first hesitant tries, growing in confidence with each and every fuck. Each thrust jerked them further up the bed, Sherlock helpless to prevent it, not that he would stop this even if he were able. Everything was John, inside him and around him, in his head and in his heart, and how could he ever have put that at risk for a cheap, drunk fumble.

This was a fascinating side to John’s character though, this primal need to dominate, though on some level Sherlock must have sensed it from the very start. He lost himself to the relentless motion, the wickedly accurate assault on his prostate squeezed wrecked sobs from his throat.

“Are you there? I’m there….come on Sherlock….oh god”

He couldn’t answer, only cry out, his cock spurting violently as the orgasm ripped him apart. They hadn’t even tried to make it last this time, just took it quick and hard and rough.

He collapsed against the mattress, still pulsing in weak bursts as John pounded into him a few more times jerking and uncoordinated , as warm sticky semen pumped into his arse.

“I should make you jealous more often” he joked, tugging weakly at his bonds as John sagged over him sweaty and sated at last. It would only take the twist of a wrist to get them done, but it was the thought that counted, and it had been an inspired thought, at that. John gave an exhausted groan and slowly rolled off him, pulling his softening cock out with a slick, wet sound. Sherlock grimaced a little at the weird, slimy feeling of lube and come as it trickled out of his arse. He would be sore tomorrow, the tender rim of skin felt hot and chafed, but he found it hard to care even a little. At least they could compare their aches and pains and argue over who got to sleep on the wet patch.

“Don’t you fucking dare or I’ll…..”

“You’ll what?”

“Screw you into the mattress again” John smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth tilting up as he gently undid the tie and tossed over the side of the bed onto the floor. The chill of the room made them both shiver so John shuffled them around, grabbing the covers and pulling them over them both, a ruined crumpled mess of sweat, lube and semen. Sherlock sighed, nuzzling into the crook of John’s arm, a leg hooked over his thigh, content with this simple intimacy. He would never hurt John like that again, intentional or otherwise, and he hoped that John understood that now, believed in him.

“Sherlock…Do you think there’s something wrong with us?”

Sherlock started in surprise at John’s worried voice and propped himself up on his elbow, face creased with concern. He wasn’t entirely sure what John was getting at, but hoped it had nothing to do with regret. Deep blue eyes gazed up at him sheepishly.

“Is that what you think…..that we just did something wrong?” Sherlock said, brushing a wisp of hair from John’s brow, still damp and overheated from exertion. “Because we didn’t, so you can stop feeling guilty about this right now”.

“I’ve just never done anything like this…never wanted to before, not with anyone” John said, twisting the edge of the covers between nervous fingers. He looked back at Sherlock expectantly, trusting him to have the right answers even though he wasn’t sure there were any. How did you put a name to this, it was just…what it was…them, Sherlock and John.

“Well aren’t I the lucky one?” he said, trying his utmost to sound confident and to make John confident in return. It’s okay to want this John…I love it….really love it…but if you don’t want to that’s fine….okay…we don’t have to”. Because honestly, John would always be enough, just as he was.

“Okay” John sank back onto the pillows with a sigh, satisfied with his scant declaration “But I suppose it was just my luck to fall for a complete fucking nutter who likes the kinky stuff”.

“Poor John…I told you…that was just for starters”

“Oh fuck, I’m going to hell”

“Well, you’ll have to save me a spot”

John sat up, ignoring his protests and hands that sought to pull him back down again.

“What are you doing, you can’t get up” he whined like a petulant child and pulled the covers up over his head with a huff.

“Thirsty, sorry...I sort of worked up a sweat with all that energetic bouncing around, so unless you have a bottle stashed somewhere I’m going to have to nip out and buy some”

“What? Urgh well hurry the fuck up” he barked, voice muffled by the thick heap of covers. It was hot and smelly under here, but he childishly refused to come out.

“Stay like that then” John giggled as he gathered crumpled clothing from the floor, sorting through until he found his own. He pulled on creased trousers and a top like a dish rag rattling in the pockets for spare change. “I saw a vending machine in the staff corridor, you want anything while I’m there, or is that a completely stupid question?”

“Yes” Sherlock popped out, flinging the covers back, “a Coke and a Twix, oh and some Quaver’s if they’ve got any, cheese flavour”

“Christ, we’ll have to do this more often if it makes you that hungry…good job I’m so hot they were practically throwing tips across the bar to me” he jingled the change in his pocket and poked Sherlock in what he imagined were his ribs, jokingly.

John padded across the room, the door opening with a click and flooding the room with a temporary flash of light before darkness closed in on him again. His eyes felt heavy and tired, sleep dragging at the edges of his consciousness, trying to pull him down. No, not until John came back. His lids flickered closed again, limbs heavy as he curled into a tight ball.

The muffled sounds of activity from the hotel were just discernible, a sign that reality would soon intrude. He planned to savour these last moments, forcing himself into consciousness again and pushing himself up, arms braced, still on his front. Maybe a quick fag out the window would wake him up.

Swinging a leg over the side of the bed, he stood up, catching up the packet and lighter before padding on bare feet to the window. He pushed up the sash and leaned out, taking in deep lungfuls of cold night air that prickled lightly at his naked skin, cigarette already present between his lips.

John would hate it, the smoky ash-tray breath but that had been the bargain – he could keep the fags for now if he agreed to quit the hard stuff.

The door opened again and soft feet padded across the room.

“John?”

“Wrong…sorry sweetheart”.

A sudden rush of air, no time to turn around, pain shooting through his temple as he fell, cracking his head on the open window sill - a warm, wet trickle ran down his face before he slipped into unconsciousness.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for leaving it on a cliffhanger, but this one was becoming waaaay to long!


End file.
